The Strength of Her
by xfirstofhername
Summary: Winterfell is free of Boltons, winter is here, and Sansa watches on displeased sidelines as Jon leads the north. With threats in every direction, tensions rise as arrivals of new persons and old make their way to Jon and Sansa's side. Family blood boils as the Starks are pulled in opposite directions and flames ignite something new when Sansa finds herself alone with her thoughts.
1. Chapter 1

**01\. Welcome Home**

The air was sharper at the official confirmation that winter had arrived in Westeros. Sansa couldn't help but imagine the faces of the southerners, and she smiled despite herself. They would hate it—hate how the days would grow short and the air would create goose bumps on their fragile skin as a cool breeze passed by. She could hear them already, complaining about the long, drab nights and praying for the return of the summer years. Sansa hoped they prayed to their gods, wishing for them to answer the request of a short winter. She hoped because she knew their prayers would go unanswered. Winter had finally come and every nerve in her body trembled with the notion that it was going to stay for a long time.

Despite the feeling of change, it all looked the same—the land her family had called their own for so long. It looked almost as it had before she was made to leave. The trees stood tall and unshaken from the polar winds and heavy snow. The white powder that swirled in the air landed quietly among thousands of millions of their brothers in the hopes of blanketing the world forever. From atop the castle battlement, Sansa's eyes fixated on the footprints that indented the road leading out from Winterfell. She felt as if she could still pinpoint where hers would have landed.

"My lady," a soft voice said from behind her. Sansa turned her head to look over her shoulder. With little surprise, she saw Brienne of Tarth standing at the entrance of a drum tower. Sansa had to praise the woman for being able to move such a large frame with diligence and stealth.

"Yes?" Sansa answered, slightly looking back over the land.

Brienne lowered her head in a brief nod. "Lord Snow wishes to speak with you in his chambers."

Despite the want to stay where she was, she knew Jon wouldn't have called for her for no reason. She was quite sure that she already knew what he wanted to speak about. She had been more than just a little distant of late. So she nodded to Brienne and said, "I'll be there in a moment."

It wasn't until she knew that the knight had taken her leave that Sansa took steps away from the wall's edge and toward the entrance to the staircase. The stairs were lit up just enough to see clearly, casting a soft glow on the stonewalls, but still, she took each step with a slower movement than necessary, her left hand feeling the wall next to her. Her fingertips slightly dug into the towered stones, trying to feel some kind of familiarity, but all she felt were small scratches forming on her skin.

Brienne was waiting at the bottom of the stairs—strong and unwavering. She nodded when she saw Sansa appear from the staircase and began to walk forward, knowing Sansa would follow suit down the hallway. The two of them walked in silence, and Sansa was, not for the first time, glad for the woman's withdrawn demeanor. So instead of their voices making unnecessary small talk being heard through the melancholy corridors, it was only their echoing footsteps on the stone flooring. It was something they both preferred.

Stopping halfway down the corridor, Brienne stood silently as Sansa stepped in front of the heavy wooden door leading to Jon's chambers. Sansa, knocking lightly on the door, nodded Brienne's dismissal and entered into Jon's room. The door clicked shut softly behind Sansa as she turned around to look at Jon. He was sitting in a chair next to the fire, studying it rather than glancing up at her. Even from where she stood, Sansa could see the flames flickering in the reflection of his eyes—always growing heavier with guilt and burden every time she saw him. She knew he wasn't the only one. It was a feeling they both deeply shared, but were reluctant to speak of.

Sansa moved away from the door to sit in the chair across from him. "You wanted to see me?"

It was only after she spoke that he looked up to lock eyes with her. "Your presence has been missed in the day light."

A small twitch of a smile began at the corner of her mouth at Jon's statement. She couldn't see anyone like Tormund or Ser Davos caring that she hadn't been around lately. There was very little doubt that anyone but Jon even noticed that her person had been missing from court, but it was clear he didn't wish to admit it.

"You were up on the east wall again." Jon wasn't asking a question, but merely stating the obvious. He was still looking at her, but she has moved her gaze to where his had been when she had arrived. The fire was much less accusing. "You're troubled."

His statement surprised her for it sounded as her actions surprised him. How could she not be troubled? Sansa wanted to ask him how he felt but decided it was best not to press the subject. Instead, she simply said, "I'm restless. Anxious."

"Anxious?"

Sansa shifted her gaze back to her brother. Guilt pulled at her heartstrings every time he looked at her like this—full of worry and concern. She, more than anyone, knew that she didn't deserve it. "What we ended with the Bolton's is just the beginning. Good or bad, everyone knows there's more to come."

"So you think spending your time staring at the Kingsroad is going to settle your nerves?" Sansa didn't know how pleased she was with Jon's tone.

Understanding that their conversation was quickly coming to an ugly point, Sansa stood up. "It's better than being continuously shielded by the walls," was all she said. She had taken only a step away from her chair before she felt Jon's hand grasp hers. He was standing now, too. He squeezed her hand as he faced her.

No matter how hard she wanted there to be, there was not one memory that came to the forefront of her mind where she and Jon had shared a family touch before all this. Lady Catelyn had been a wonderful, strong woman, one Sansa could only hope to be one day, but her treatment of Jon was one thing Sansa wished she hadn't blindly mimicked. It never ceased to amaze her that Jon was so willing to give her his kindness and care. She vowed herself to be worthy of it.

Giving Jon a tight smile and a squeeze of his hand in reassuring reply, Sansa said, "I'll be more present, I promise." And she did.

Jon returned her small smile and nodded. It was all he could ask for and he accepted that. With nothing more she wished to say, Sansa slipped her hand out of Jon's and walked toward the door. Had she been in any real hurry to leave, she wouldn't have noticed the unnatural emptiness to the room. It was all as if no one had been staying in it at all. The bed was made with diligence and the tables held nothing but candles in the midst of melting. The only item that didn't come with the room was his sword that rested against the foot of the bed frame. The pommel of the white direwolf snarled fiercely into the air.

By the time Jon spoke a few last words to her, Sansa had only just placed her hand on the door handle. "Things will become normal. Eventually."

Sansa paused for a moment before pulling the door open. The hall of the corridor was completely empty. "You might want to make this place feel more like home then."

A single chuckle could be heard from Jon as the door closed behind the young lady.

•••

 _Normal._

Jon's words rang in Sansa's mind that night, causing sleep to escape her. That single word had meant just that, normalcy, once before. But now it only furthered to explain just how much had changed since the years she and her family had first separated from each other. Ned and Catelyn Stark had always repeated to their children that there was to always be a Stark in Winterfell—what they should have taught their children was that no Stark should ever leave Winterfell.

It had never once faired well for any of them.

Sansa tossed side to side countless times, hoping that another position would allow sleep to wrap around her, but each left her just as awake as before. There was something poking in her mind. And it wasn't just what Jon had told her. With a sigh, Sansa gave up trying to will herself into a slumber. She lit a single candle on her bedside table. The flame cast a large shadow behind her. Her dark figure cascaded over the bare wall effortlessly. Not taking her eyes off the candle, Sansa sat up on her bed, hugging her knees to her chest. She figured if closing her eyes didn't work, she'd simply wait patiently for sleep to greet her. So she sat—knees to her chest and blankets pulled up to her chin. Time passed quickly. Or so she thought. Sansa couldn't tell how long she sat there, gazing into the ember eyes winking next to her. The only way she could tell that time was in fact passing was by watching drips of wax race slowly down the side of the candle, pooling together as one at the base.

Off toward the gate of Winterfell, muffled and low behind the closed window, voices could be heard yelling back and forth to each other. Although Sansa couldn't understand their words, it was enough to tear her out of the flaming candles trace and look toward the noise. Every few seconds, a flicker of light would appear in the corner of the glass. Soon that flicker became a constant glow that grew brighter and brighter. They were lighting the courtyard torches.

 _Something is happening._

Curiosity gained the better of her; Sansa pulled off her blankets and made her way to the other side of the bed. The stone was cold under bare feet, but she didn't mind. She promised herself she'd never let the cold sway her again. With the window cracked just a bit, she strained her ears to pick up as much as she could. The thought crossed her mind to leave her room and see for herself what was going on but thought better of it. It was just as likely to be trouble coming their way as good news. It was better to stay put until one was placed over the other.

She stood next to the window only a few moments before loud thumps came running through the halls. Sansa wasn't even able to formulate a beginning thought before Jon came bursting through her chamber door. It was a surprise to see Jon so dissolved. His breathing was ragged and his expression seemed puzzled. Whatever had him out of bed at this hour clearly had to be pressing as Jon was still wearing his nightclothes. He had only taken the time to put on to see Jon so dissolved. His breathing was ragged and his expression seemed puzzled. Whatever had him out of bed at this hour clearly had to be pressing as Jon was still wearing his nightclothes. He had only taken the time to put on trousers.

"Sansa?"

She didn't dare move away from the window. She highly doubted that she could even if she had wanted to, even if every muscle in her body wasn't tensing and rendering her body heavy. Jon's face was unreadable, but Sansa could only assume that news at this time of the night couldn't possibly be news that one would want to hear.

It wasn't until she began to feel light headed that Sansa realized that she was holding her breath. She exhaled, "What's happened?"

Jon's voice was even when he said, "It's Bran."

Sansa's heart quickened at the mention of her little brother. His young face popped into her head, brown hair and peacefully sleeping in his bed after the fall. She wondered what the boy looked like now. Like father, wise and sure? Or perhaps like the uncle that he had been named after, strong and cunning? A darkened thought clouded over her warming picture of Bran. What if the last male Stark was no longer living? Had word made its way to Winterfell, bearing the bad news?

"He's here." Jon's voice interrupted her thoughts. She would have gone on thinking about every tragic possibility Bran could have gone through, but the smile forming on Jon's lips stalled her. "He's alive."

There was a brief moment where Sansa refused to believe the news. It would only allow joy and relief to settle upon her. Where those feelings were brought up in the past only assured her that she should grow suspicious and paranoid about what may be sitting behind the curtain. But the moment didn't last.

With her cloak simple wrapped around her shoulders for cover, Sansa and Jon made their way through the halls. They should have kept their composure in check, to make sure they still acted as a Lord and Lady should at all times; they should have walked through the dark maze of corridors and halls and entryways, but instead, they ran. It was a soft trot a first like horses just gaining freedom from their stalks and wondering if all was real, but each step gave the two more confidence, more desperation.

Jon took the lead in front of Sansa, opening a door that led outside. They were greeted with a burst of cold air that instantly raised bumps on her arms. She didn't move to adjust her cloak but shifted her hand next to Jon's. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye, studying her, but said nothing. His hesitation was felt for just a moment before he accepted his sister's hand. Together, they made their way down the courtyard steps, their path lit up with torches both hung from the castle walls and in the hands of their entourage. Every eye could be felt boring into them. Tormund, the red bearded wildling leader, and a few of his men were just some of the men who had risen from their beds to see what was going on. Even Ser Davos had made an appearance.

Sansa quickly became very self-aware of her unladylike appearance.

They were only half way down the stairs when she saw him—her young, brown haired brother who had always been a happy child. There was a deep need for her to see his bright smile upon laying eyes on him, to know that he was still what she remembered, but her heart broke when, even at a distance, she saw Bran's sorrow in his eyes. She noticed that his lips were moving. Although she wasn't close enough to hear his words, she could imagine what they were.

 _Jon_. His brother. _Sansa._ His sister. _I'm finally back home..._ He was finally back home.

Sansa reached Bran first, falling to her knees next to him. There were a thousand different things that she wanted to say to him—praises that he was alive, questions about what had happened to him and Rickon after they had left Winterfell, explanation of what happened to Jon and herself since she had last seen them. But none of the words that ran muddled around her would come out of her mouth. Instead, she wrapped her arms around the body of her little brother and a sob came through her lips.

"I can't believe I actually made it back," Bran said in Sansa's ear. He eagerly reciprocated her embrace.

Sansa could feel Jon come up next to her, so she pulled away from Bran to allow him his turn. No longer in their embrace, Bran and Sansa could look at one another. No words were said, but it was obvious both had a lot to say.

Jon knelt down beside Sansa, a sad smile forming on his face as he placed his hand on the side of Bran's cheek. "Look at you. You're all grown up."

Sansa was already crying silent tears, but hearing Jon's voice croak almost pushed her over the edge. She closed her eyes and breathed in and out deeply.

Bran looked Jon up and down, taking in his brother's appearance. "I was sure the next time I saw you, you would be all in black."

Jon smiled, patting Bran's cheek again. Sansa felt his body vibrate as he let out a low chuckle. "You seem to have caught me off guard."

"Is that anyway for a man of the Night's Watch to perform?" Bran questioned back. He was smiling now, but the way he looked at Jon didn't add up to his words.

Someone stood beside him, a girl perhaps around Jon's age with hair just the same. She didn't at all look to be on edge or unsettled with her new surroundings but made sure to keep close to Bran. Her close proximity to the boy didn't seem to stem from protection.

Sansa more than welcomed the friendly banter, but between the freezing winds, the nameless young woman standing by Bran's side, and all the gawking expressions from the men around them, it hardly felt like the place and time. After standing back up, she smiled down at the sibling reunion and said, "It's time to welcome another Stark home."

* * *

 **Well, there is my first chapter!**

 **I know it's not very exciting, and really the first few won't really be in terms of the romance and all, but they will get better! I really want this fic to be more than just a SanSan storyline. Sansa has become such a complex character, and I want to bring that out.**

 **Also, I'm way behind and still haven't watched season 7 yet so I know this won't exactly go with the show. I started writing the first several chapters before it was aired and it's simply how I would like everything to end.**

 **Anyway, please tell me what you think! It's my first fanfic so I hope I'm doing the world and characters justice. Vote! Comment! Think about how far away season 8 is and cry! Any combination will be acceptable.**


	2. Chapter 2

**02\. Reasons**

"When was the last time you two had a real meal?" Sansa questioned the next morning. She only nibbled on a piece of salted blood sausage as she watched Bran and Meera fill their mouths in a hurry.

There hadn't been time for them to eat much the night before, nothing more than milk and bread and cheese with some berries. It was too late for the kitchens to be running, but it didn't matter in the end. Bran and Meera were glad for what they were given and even more so when they were ushered into their rooms. They looked upon the bed as if it was made of gold.

Only an hour passed before they all went their separate ways, although it felt like all night. They each had so much to say to one another—questions, praises, laughs and tears—and it took all their will to leave each other to their thoughts and get what little sleep they could. Morning would bring discussion.

The three of them had gathered to break fast in the Great Hall and no sooner was the food placed on the table did Bran and Meera seize whatever they could. The food went from their plates to their mouths so quickly; it would have been thought that the food was at risk of disappearing. Saying they were eager to taste a properly cooked meal was an understatement.

Meera answered first, buttered bread in one hand and a fork of sausage in the other. She only bothered half a swallow before explaining, "We were able to eat fine at times, depending on the game in areas."

"But," Bran started before taking a big swig of his wine cup, "not a thing nearly as good as this." He reached across the table to add more eggs to his plate.

"The rabbit wasn't bad though, you have to admit."

He smiled at Meera and shook his head. "Not always."

A comfortable silence fell over them a moment. The only noise that could be heard was the clanking of utensils against plates and stomachs moaning in glee.

"Should we not have waited for Jon?"

With a wine glass to her lips, Sansa shook her head as the bitter drink cascaded her tongue. "I'm sure he'll be around shortly. Besides, did you really want to wait for him?"

Bran and Meera exchanged looks and it was clear that they did not.

It didn't take long for Jon to find them. He had woken early, as he had almost every day since setting foot back into Winterfell and walked the grounds. He might not have been at the Wall any longer, but he was still seen as Lord Commander by his peers rather he liked it or not. The duties that come with that title, that come with spending so much time as a Man of the Night's Watch, is hard to break overnight. Everything had to be working, and he had to be the one to see that it was. It was a wonder if he'd ever go back to his ways from before. Sansa expected that none of them would.

"How are you two feeling?" Jon asked, food and wine of his own now sitting in front of him. He smiled and didn't touch any of it until Bran started to reply.

"Better. Drained now that we're able to catch a break but better." Bran gave Jon a smile, sad and tired, but there was a small piece of it that reminded both Jon and Sansa so much of the little boy he had once been all that time ago.

"Bran," Sansa leaned forward, letting Jon eat before it all went cold. She would be the one to start the inquisition. "We know you just got here, but we have to know—what happened to you out there? The last Jon heard from one of the Night's Watch, you were heading north. Passed the wall. Not to it."

Bran glanced at Jon. "So Sam did tell you? He said you and he were friends."

Jon nodded, lowering his wine glass hesitantly. His eyes lit up for a briefest of moments. "We are." Jon didn't walk much about the men at the Wall, most he had befriended was dead he said, but Samwell Tarly was one that he talked about often if Sansa asked. He was a stout boy, Jon had said, not the kind likely to be seen up there on the Wall and many thought he wasn't going to make it all together—but, with the help of Jon and so many others, he had. And he had done so much for Jon in the end. He wouldn't admit it to anyone, but Sansa knew he left alone without Sam.

"But he said there was another one of you. A boy. And Hodor and Summer."

What little joy had been flowing through the veins of Bran and Meera vanished at the mention of the others in their party. Their faces grew grim and dismal. "The other was my brother," Meera explained. "But we were attacked beyond the wall, and he was lost to us."

"Attacked?" Sansa wondered out loud.

"By what?" Jon's voice was low and stern. He was asking a question, but by the way he spoke, he must have been fairly certain he already knew the answer. "White Walkers?"

Bran was surprised to hear his brother come to the right conclusion. "You know that they're real? You've heard about them? Seen them?"

"I haven't just seen them," Jon said. A dark shadow fell across his face as he thought back to the fight with the wildlings against the White Walkers. No feeling of danger could even begin to compare. "I've fought them. It's killing them that is a lot more unbelievable. And Hodor and Summer?"

"The same like, only at a different time." Bran hung his face down, not meeting the eyes of his brother or sister. Sansa could hear the threat of tears as he continued. "Summer was first. She tried to help us escape, and we were so close, but there were just too many of them. They were all over her. And you should have seen what they did to Hodor. It was terrible. He could have left, but he didn't move. He saved us."

"But, Bran," Sansa's voice was soft and slow, reaching across the table to grab hold of the young boy's hand in what little comfort she could give him. She knew it didn't do much. Losing Lady had been one of the hardest things, the beginning of a long line of lost loved ones, and Hodor had always been a kind friend to the family, even if she had never treated him so. "What were you doing north of the Wall? Why didn't you go with Rickon or find Jon?"

"I did find him," Bran whispered. "At one point."

There was silence as Sansa and Jon looked at each other and back to Bran. He still wouldn't lift his head and Meera wasn't letting anything more slip than what he was.

"What do you meet you found Jon?"

"It wasn't too long after I had run into Sam that we were attacked by some men dressed in black—Men of the Night's Watch that had turned their back on their vows."

Jon was shaking his head and gritting his teeth. "Karl Tanner. Bran, I killed him. I stuck my sword through the back of his head. We searched the whole keep, and there was no sign of you."

Bran looked over at Meera then finally at Jon. There were no tears, but his eyes were still somber. "Meera's brother, Jojen, knew that if we let you see me, you wouldn't have let me continue north. What we were doing was too important to let you stop us."

"I've been farther north than you can even imagine," Jon said, leaning forward so that Bran was unable to look away from his gaze again. He had a message for his brother, and he wanted it to be received. "There's nothing but snow and wildlings and death. What could possibly be so important that you couldn't risk being stopped? _What_ were you doing up there?"

"I—I was looking for answers."

"Answers for what?"

But the answer wasn't given fast enough, and only partly because Bran was slow in giving it. The side door opened again and Brienne came into Sansa's view. The young Podrick Paine followed behind her. Lady Stark couldn't help but smile a bit every time she saw Podrick follow in Brienne's steps. She was a vision of sturdiness and strength, composure and confidence. She was also often full of a fear of failure. Podrick couldn't be more different. He was a friendly boy who always seemed to see the good in everything. Sansa had only spent a close amount of time with him after he and Brienne had found her making her escape with Theon Greyjoy from the Bolton's. He had been kind to her, as he always had when he served Tyrion. Loyalty and kindness were large traits of his and none could say differently.

The squire and his knight—an authority that Brienne still wished Pod would pass to someone else—placed themselves before Sansa and Jon at the table. Bran and Meera swiveled in their seats to better see the two. Brienne was the one who spoke.

"My ladies, my lords," Brienne bowed. "I've been sent with some urgent news. Scouts have spotted several men roaming about, said to be bits of what escaped of the Bolton army. Sympathizers."

"The Boltons?" Bran's confused tone matched his expression. He looked across the table to see Sansa frown.

Brienne said nothing but instead gave an apologetic glance toward Sansa. She did not want to expose that of which was not hers.

"How far?" Jon asked. He was standing now, and Sansa knew what was running through his mind.

"They had made camp just half way between here and Castle Cerwyn."

"Find Tormund. Tell him and the others to ready the horses. If we leave now, we will be able to get back before it turns dark."

Brienne nodded, and she and Podrick left to carry out Jon's request. Sansa stayed where she was, poking at what remained on her plate, listening to Brienne's armor clamor against itself as she made her exit. Podrick was silent behind her.

Jon took a swig of wine, a long one that left him breathless when he pulled the cup away. He looked down at Sansa. "I'll be back before supper."

"Wait, what's going on?" Bran asked, his voice sounding for a moment like it used to when he was younger. "What has happened with the Bolton's?"

Jon looked between Sansa and Bran. Question silently with his sister what he should do about their brother. Sansa nodded to him, motioning it that it was fine. He had to leave. Sansa wanted him to leave, to take care of the Bolton's men. When Jon understood this, he looked just at Bran. Sadness clouded his eyes. "I'll be back before supper."

Their nice breakfast meal, so long overdue and highly anticipated, had officially come to an end. The happenings that have taken place while Bran was gone had hardly come up yet since he had arrived. He had barely even questioned how Jon and Sansa had been able to take back Winterfell for their family, probably simply thinking that Robb had been able to take it back from Theon before too much more damage had been done. Perhaps he thought Sansa had been given a pass from the Queen, allowed to live away from the capital as the daughter of a traitor in shame and exile. Maybe he hadn't thought about how they had come to be there at all.

"What happened with the Boltons?" Bran asked again, looking back to Sansa in the need of answers. He had been bombarded with so many questions that morning, it was time for him to voice his own.

She still said nothing.

"Sansa, I have been away from our family long enough. Tell me. Tell me what I want to know."

There was sharpness to her brother's voice that Sansa had not heard from him before, him being such a young child when last they met. It was more apparent now that it wasn't just his physical features that had grown and changed—a nose now too large for his face, hair straggly and in a deep need of a wash. Just like Jon and her own self, Bran's spirit was broken and remade into something that their mother probably wouldn't even be able to recognize.

His stare was still on her, burning holes into her once more. It was clear that he was not backing down.

Sansa nodded. "Fine." Nothing about this conversation was going to be fine. Reliving it was as bad as living it. But the boy wanted to know. He'd wish soon that he had held his ignorance close, but if he wanted to know, all known would be given to him. "There was a reason Mother didn't want us leaving Winterfell."

•••

It was unsettling how little Bran knew about the events south of the Wall. Having had to leave Winterfell after Theon Greyjoy's raid and capture of their home, the last news that had reached him was that Ned Stark had been beheaded on request of King Joffrey. There were years worth of information that he needed to be told with only a few minutes for each portion to sink in.

Arya had hardly been seen since witnessing the death of their father, only known to be wandering around the countryside.

The Freys and Boltons were both in secret alliance with the Lannisters, slaughtering their mother and brother in an ambush dressed as a wedding.

Unable to gain mercy for their father or leave the Capital, Sansa was made to marry Tyrion Lannister and then later the abusive Ramsey Bolton after fleeing the scene of Joffrey's murderous wedding. When back at Winterfell, home but not, it took the help of one family traitor to flee the family of another.

Voted Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, Jon fought against wildlings and White Walkers and his wish to come to his family's aid. His unpopular choices led to him being betrayed by those who were meant to be his brothers. It took more than faith to undo the damage it had done to him.

Ramsey had captured Rickon. The baby brother to them all was nothing more than a power play for the Bolton, a sign to the Starks and all who followed them. Rickon was killed because of it.

And Ramsey was dead because of it all.

•••

So much hesitation almost prevented Sansa from telling Bran anything that happened to their family. She planned on only telling him what little he needed to know. But when she opened her mouth, all hesitation was gone—she couldn't stop. Everything that she could will herself to remember and everything that others told her came flowing out of her mouth like rushing water. Each detail was fresh in her mind, as if she were living them over and over again on her own, whether they were hers or not: mistreatment by Joffrey, Stannis Baratheon's multiple attempts to take the power he thought he was born into, the trial of Tyrion Lannister for the murder of his king, Jon's meeting with wildlings and White Walkers.

By the end of her tale, Sansa gave a sigh of relief when she relived the point in time when the Stark family took Winterfell back, in part because she wished to stop talking, but also because, for a moment, she forgot that it all already had an outcome. It still surprised Sansa that she was in fact home.

She gave a shy glance at Bran, anticipating how he'd take the enormous amount of information that was given in such a short amount of time. Guilt began to rise up from within Sansa at how she unloaded everything onto Bran so quickly and without Jon standing by for support. But Jon knew he had to leave, and he knew that Bran needed to know.

"So… so what comes next?" Bran wasn't looking at her, but rather stared at something across the table. His eyes were clouded over.

Sansa blinked. That was the question Sansa had asked herself countless times. "For now, we're just trying to get our bearings. Jon's securing the trust of the other families that fight with us. At some point, he might have to go back to the Wall, as he's still technically the Lord Commander. We've talked about trying to locate Arya. Then there's the White Walkers and the Lannisters on either side of us."

Rattling off each of the possibilities was just a roundabout way of saying that there were no solid plans in play.

The Lannisters and the White Walkers had to be dealt with before they both ran the world into ruin, but the north didn't have a large or powerful enough army to take one on alone much less both. There would be little that Sansa could do for anyone if Jon traveled back to the Wall—he was The King in The North. Very few would listen to what she had to say. As for Arya, the location of where she could be was lost; even with Brienne's run in with her by the Eerie. If she had traveled so long and as far since her presence in King's Landing, there was no telling where the wild child would end up. Sansa was at a loss of what to do about any of it.

Bran was as well. He grasped his cup and took a deep and long swallow. He resisted the urge to slam his cup onto the table but shoved both it and his plate away.

"I want to go back to my room."

With no words to comfort the quiet rage and pain she saw rising on Bran's face, she nodded.

Sansa refilled her wine glass when it was only silence and herself remaining at the table. She watched as the blood colored liquid simmered under the sun's raze entering from the high windows above. Bringing the goblet to her lips, she took a deep breath and tilted the bottom of the cup up. The taste used to be disapproved of when she was younger, bitter and sour and stale. But she still drank it then. It was a grown ups drinks, something that her father allowed her to have only one glass with special meals, something that signaled that she was a proper young lady. Proper young ladies are the ones to drink wine the least nowadays. But she drank it all the same. The taste didn't change, although it went down her throat smoother than it used to, and it calmed her if she drank enough of it. As time passed, she was able to drink enough of it. Setting down her cup after one continuous swallow, Sansa was almost able to see the bottom of the cup.

 _I should have waited for Jon._

•••

Jon didn't return until the light of the sky only just clung to the horizon. Everyone in the castle had been waiting for his return, on edge about what he found out about those who still sided with the Boltons. Sansa had been impatiently waiting for Jon to make his way home and was already outside before the gate to Winterfell rose.

Wrapping her cloak tightly around her shoulders, Sansa made her way down the stairs to the courtyard. She made sure to keep a firm grip on the wood railing as the snowfall created a thin layer of ice on everything.

First to come into her sights, Jon came forth riding his horse. Ghost trailed closely behind, tongue out and tail wagging.

Looking over the well being of the men, Sansa went up to Jon. "What did you find?"

Jon dismounted his horse and handed the reins over to one of his men. He bowed to Jon first and then to Sansa before leaving. "We were right about there being sympathizers."

"How many?"

"More than what we could take on today with what we rode down there with, but nothing that could impact us without a leader among with like Ramsey. They're heading south. Probably thinking they can regroup on their own again."

Sansa stopped in her tracks, but Jon didn't notice. He kept walking. None of what he said was what Sansa wanted to hear. "So, you're not going to do anything about them?"

Jon was already up the stairs to the balcony that connected so many of Winterfell's buildings but turned around when he realized that he wasn't being followed. He took a few steps back down before saying, "What would you have me do?"

A sudden silent hold came over the courtyard. Sansa didn't have to look around to know that she and Jon had accumulated an audience. The men who had gone south with him were exchanging glances between each other as they readied their horses for a night in the stables. Stables boys and kitchen staff hurried across the muddy grounds.

The last rider came through the threshold of the East Gate, a large red-headed man covered in gray and white furs. Tormund, Jon's unofficial next in command, brought his horse close behind Sansa, clearly not understanding that the two siblings were having an intense moment. He climbed down from his horse.

When their eyes met, he nodded to Sansa but said nothing. The wildling didn't often exchange words with her at all. Jon was the one he took orders from and Sansa would be naïve not to notice he wasn't the only one—she was not their commander or their King. In fact, any time that Tormund when near her was to start a doomed attempt at impressing Brienne. Sansa didn't dislike Tormund for this—though she didn't fancy him much either. She'd have to dislike almost everyone if there were requirements that they stopped thinking of her a young Stark who needed to be shielded from everything.

Sansa nodded to Tormund but said and expressed nothing. Turning back toward Jon—he was still at the top of the stairs, staring at her—Sansa lifted up her skirt a few inches and gracefully stepped closer to him. She said nothing going up until she had just passed Jon. Slightly over her shoulder, she said as steadily as she could, "Go talk with Bran."

Something resembling urgent concern flashed across Jon's face. "Why? Is he alright?"

"Why?" Sansa knew that she had no right to be upset with Jon after everything, but his unwillingness to do anything about the Bolton's remaining men had sparked a head within her. "Because you weren't here when you were the person he needed to most. You were always his favorite."

What Sansa spoke was the truth, but even she had to acknowledge how harsh her words were. Knowing that is she lingered she would withdraw them, Sansa made her way passed Jon and toward the nearest castle door.

Dinner was served shortly after Jon arrived, but was eaten in separate rooms. None had yet come together face to face after the day they had. A bowl of stew was placed on the corner table in Sansa's room along with a single cup, a jug of wine and bread covered with butter. Sansa thanked the hand that brought the food in but made little effort to actually eat it. Instead, she watched the steam of the beet and veggie soup rise up from the bowl and roll and tumbled through the air in an enchanting dance. She loved dancing.

Sansa, not for the first time that evening, wondered how Bran was doing and if Jon was still with him. She wanted to go see, to tell Bran that she could have done a better job of explaining to him the happenings of their family. And Jon deserved an apology more than anything else. She'd be doing that for the rest of her life it seemed.

Just now beginning to pick at her bread, Sansa stood up from her table and headed toward her chamber door. It opened with a long, high-pitched creak. The hall had darkened much since she had returned to her room and turned back to grab the bedside candle, already glowing fiercely. Crossing the out of the entryway, she made her way to Bran's room.

The door to Bran's chamber was opened just enough to let both light and sound escape into the hallway. Sansa slowed her steps as she came closer. Bran was sitting in the bed, covered up with blankets, an empty stew bowl sitting next to him. He was staring at his folded hands in his lap. Jon was still there. He sat in a chair pulled as close to the bed as possible with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward.

"You can't blame yourself, Bran," Jon said, his voice hushed and gentle. He locked his hands together to keep his fingers from fidgeting. "There was no way to know."

"I thought I was protecting him." The young Stark ignored his brother's attempt to console him.

"Bran."

"I sent him away because I knew it would be dangerous where we were going. I had hoped he'd go to the Wall and find you. Why didn't I just bring him with me? Why didn't I stay with him?"

Jon moved to the edge of his seat, placing his hand over Bran's, but he was quickly rejected. "Bran, please."

"He's dead because of me." Jon began to shake his head and opened his mouth to say something, but Bran continued on. His voice was cracking. "Rickon is dead because of me! I killed him!"

Sansa had to cover her mouth to keep from crying as Jon pushed himself forward and wrapped his arms around Bran's shoulders. His sobbing was muffled in Jon's chest.

"My lady?" Sansa jumped at the sound of a voice behind her. Meera, in nightclothes of her own, stood just aside the door to her room. Even when sleeping, she was never far away from Bran.

"Meera," Sansa said, almost breathlessly. Meera stood as a dark figure against the light of the lit fireplace behind her. "Sansa is fine, place."

Nodding in agreement and motioning passed Sansa, Meera asked, "How is he doing?"

Sansa wiped away an escaped tear before answering. "As can be expected, I suppose, given how much I burdened him with." A deep sadness was in her voice and there was no use in trying to cover it up.

"Bran needed to know," Meera started, no look of blame upon her face. "It's better he found out now—by family—than the whispers of those from behind closed doors.

"I know it might not be my place, you are his family, but I must tell you one thing: Bran had seen, felt terrible things of his that I will never understand, but I know that he's strong and knowing and able. It was a lot to take in at the moment, but he'll pull through."

There was some kind of spark in Meera's voice as she spoke about Bran. She thought she had no place to speak on Bran to Sansa, but Sansa thought the opposite. Sansa may have known her brother for a decade before their separation; it was nothing in comparison to the relationship with this young woman. Whatever they had been through together, it created a bond not easily severed.

Sansa smiled, seeing something that had been so painfully obvious but so easily missed before now. "You care for him, don't you?"

A look of surprise and embarrassment flashed across Meera's face. Her mouth opened, about to refuse the Stark girl's words and claim only friendship with Bran, but was never allowed the chance. The door behind Sansa opened fully, lighting up a large portion of the hall. Jon stood in the archway. His eyes, like always, were full of sadness.

Jon and Sansa stared at each other, the silence between them not quite dissolved of tension from earlier on. Sensing the change in the moon, and still pink from Sansa's claim, Meera nodded her exit and retreated behind her door.

"I came to give my apology," Sansa said, voice suddenly hushed in the eerie silences of the hall. "I reacted too harshly to you before."

"I'm sorry, too, for leaving when you and Bran needed me the most. But you had to tell him you know that, right? And he's grateful for it in a way. And Sansa believe me if I could do anything about the Bolton's men—"

Jon was rambling off everything he deemed a mishap on his behalf, but that isn't why Sansa had come. She shook her head and cut him off. "No. It's unfair for me to expect too much of you. You're one man with a lot of deal with. Now I see why Mother and Father grew so old and tried so quickly."

A smile reached Jon's eyes. "Such is the burden of being born into a noble house."

"You're a lucky bastard then." Sansa hadn't thought to use the word since she had been reunited with Jon again, but she remembered all the times she had called Jon a bastard before he had gone to the Wall. Her lady mother had used it often enough and so did others when explaining who Jon was to Ned Stark and his family. The use of "bastard" was normal, though she never did say it to Jon's face. Even she knew that was rude and she was too proper to call it out in public. This was the first time she was saying it to him, and the first time she used it, she was trying to joke with them. How times had changed.

Jon chuckled. The sore spot of being a bastard not quite as sore as it used to be, even when being reminded by a true born heir. "That I am. A house so noble even the bastard shares the family burden."

》 **》** 》 **》** 》 **》**

 **So I know that Bran is pretty odd and all knowing with his weird Three-Eyed Raven self, but I wrote these before season 7. I might eventually turn him into that, but we'll see.**

 **Please let me know what you think. Do you like it? Hate it? Indifferent at the moment? How do you feel about the relationship between Jon and Sansa so far? Anything you have to say helps in bettering future chapters!**


	3. Chapter 3

**03\. Collecting Whispers**

Within days Winterfell was preparing for a feast. It was the first formal celebration since the family had held one for the late King Robert and his court. The proposal of the event surprised most of Winterfell's members, but its prospect tasted sweet. Food, wine, company and the appearance of three young people with Stark blood coursing through their ice-filled veins. It was hoped to be a celebration that lasted days.

The stables were overflowing with horses and the kitchens were hardly given time to rest as houses near and far made their way to the top of the largest, coldest and greatest house in the north.

"I still don't understand why Lord Snow invited all these houses to Winterfell," Podrick wondered as he, Brienne and Sansa watched Jon greet their company. Podrick's eyes scanned the countless number of new faces.

Although some had stayed near Winterfell after the fight against the Bolton's, some had to return to their homes to patch themselves up. Little goods and resources were left behind in the Bolton's stead. It had been a couple weeks since then, and Winterfell was just getting back to what it once was. After such a celebration, their stocks would be low, but it was necessary for their spirits.

"This doesn't seem to be the time for such a careless event."

Brienne scuffed, "And what time would that be, Podrick?" She stood with her arms crossed over her armored chest, eyeing everyone below them.

Pod looked scared to answer and said what was meant to be a statement as much as a question. "A time of war?"

"It's always a time of war," Brienne said with an authority and sternness only she could muster. "Fighting with violence is never the mass of it."

Sansa stayed quiet while the two went back and forth—Podrick still questions and Brienne growing more impatient with the squire's lack of understanding. Brienne was right though. A blood-covered sword is only part of the war. Jon had the allies in the last fight and was promised to have them again in the future, but he had to maintain it with high hopes. Between the war with the north's dead and the south's lion, the arrival of Bran couldn't have come at a better time. Word would travel throughout the north and south that another Stark was taking residence in the castle of his ancestors and the only thing that could better the men's spirits more would be to see the Stark blood sitting side by side feasting with their banner men. They needed to know they weren't fighting for a losing family.

And that was exactly what Sansa explained to Jon when she brought the idea up.

"We took Winterfell back by the grace of the gods," Sansa started, "but losing Rickon wasn't just Jon and me losing a brother. It was the men losing one more to serve."

This wasn't just a hot meal and cold drink and human interaction for the fun of it. This was a time to relax a single moment before all their days were made up with talk of strategy and action of force. After tonight, all these nobles would sit together with hardened expressions as they accepted or denied ideas on how to free the north for good.

In the courtyard, Jon was clasping hands with a large, burly man. But Sansa was the only one watching him. Brienne and Podrick were now watching her.

"For the longest time after Mother, Father, and Robb died, and Bran, Rickon, and Arya went missing, I was seen as the only Start left to take hold of Winterfell. The Starks were all but gone. Weakness had befallen the north and we had all but lost the game. Promise was restored with Bran's arrival."

"And a joyous occasion it is, my lady." A familiar shiver came across Sansa's skin as Petyr Baelish's voice crept up behind her.

Brienne and Podrick turned around in surprise at the sudden appearance of the former brothel keeper. Sansa didn't need to look behind her to know that he was staring at her with an intense gaze, smirking at her situation and the real truth behind his comment.

"But I do wonder, does the King in the North keep his ice throne now that a male Stark had returned home, or does he overshadow yet another true blood heir?"

Brienne glared at Lord Baelish, her voice as sharp as her sword and just as dangerous when she spoke, "You'd do best to watch your tongue when addressing Lady Sansa. And her family."

If Lord Baelish had been any other lord, Brienne another knight and Sansa still yet a lady with a mind in the proper place, she would have scolded Brienne's words toward Littlefinger. Instead, Sansa kept silent. There was no need for concern because Lord Baelish seemed completely unfazed by the harsh words at all—like they had never been voiced. He kept a smile on his face, his eyes strictly on Sansa, and an aura around him that was sweetly deviant.

Littlefinger had stayed near Winterfell since his arrival with the Vale's army, but Sansa had done all she could to keep her distance from him. What he wished to share with her was something she couldn't risk taking part in. Still, he'd find her in the end.

"What can I do for you, Lord Baelish?" Sansa asked, taking the effort to turn and gaze upon her visitor. There was no such thing as a simple social visit when it came to Littlefinger, and Sansa didn't have the time or the patience for such sneaky curtsies.

Littlefinger took a step toward her, his clasped hands opening wide like he expected her to walk into his arms. Sansa stayed where she was. "I had only wished to take a moment of your time—alone."

A quick glance to her side and Sansa didn't have to wonder what Brienne's opinion on that request was. Brienne had taken it personally when Littlefinger sold Sansa to the Boltons, as his presence was what had stood between Sansa and her vow to Lady Caitlyn. And it didn't help that Littlefinger's treatment of the Stark family was notorious for being less about their well being than it was on how he would climb his way to the top. Brienne locked eyes with Sansa, pleading her to say no to Littlefinger, but when she was given a nod of dismissal, she had no choice but to obey her lady.

"Lady Sansa." Brienne nodded, choosing to ignore Littlefinger's presence as she left Sansa's side. She wouldn't go far though—Littlefinger would never truly have a moment alone with Sansa if she had any say in it.

The squire's disposition was very different. Where Brienne had been more than reluctant to leave, Pod looked as if he couldn't wait to leave the now tense atmosphere. "Lady Sansa, Lord Baelish." He followed quickly after Brienne.

"Your knight continues to question my intentions, Lady Sansa." Littlefinger was closing the gap between Sansa and himself—slowly like she was a doe that might bolt if came upon too boldly.

She looked back over the yards, watching as Brienne and Podrick made their way to the armory. Brienne was helping Pod with his sword skills. Sansa turned back to him. "She wouldn't be a very good knight if she didn't." And I wouldn't trust her if she didn't. "You're considered a questionable man, Lord Baelish."

His ever-present smirk didn't waiver. He seemed pleased at the notion as if Sansa just gave him a glorious compliment. "All men are seen as such if they're living. Only the dead have a motive that's clear."

One could call Littlefinger many things, but none could say that the man didn't own up to his true nature. He didn't claim to be a gentleman or a shining knight or a noble lord filled with honor and duty. He knew what he was announced it honestly on many occasions. As if any around him could forget.

The shouting of men and the neighing of horses pulled Sansa to look away from Littlefinger, though it wasn't a question if he was still looking at her. Surprisingly, the noise of it all didn't faze her anymore nor did it annoy her like it did when she was younger. She would take the hustle and bustle of men and beasts any day than live amongst men who were beasts.

"I don't have very long before the feast," she stated, hinting that if he wished to speak with her, he would need to get on with it.

"Ah, yes," Littlefinger sang with a chirp that almost sounded like his house sigil. "A room full of wild north men ready to take over the world, led by the Bastard King. How far the mighty have come."

His insults were ignored. "If that's all you wish to say, I really should help will final preparations for our guests." Sansa had turned away from Littlefinger to start making her way back inside the castle, but he said something so calm and queer that is made her stop in her tracks.

"There are whispers from the eastern country that might interest you."

"And why would news from Essos interest me?" Sansa asked, her body turned toward him once more. "I have no connection to the Free Cities."

The yard below was almost empty of arrivals now. Only Jon and a few other men stood in the center, speaking in hushed tones with words blanketed over by the evening wind. Jon was smiling slightly as some comment or another, but it soon vanished as he looked up to Sansa conversing with Littlefinger. Sansa tried to push aside his stare she felt so vividly upon her. Jon soon excused himself to speak with others.

"I wouldn't be so sure," he said. "There are connections everywhere, most so obvious they're missed. What about your close family ward turned traitor?"

The most recent image of Theon flashed across Sansa's mind—his tormented eyes, beaten body, and severed mentality. He had always been a cocky boy, so sure in his abilities to the point that everyone loathed him for it. Ramsey Bolton had made that Theon disappear from this world. All that was left of his soul was broken and bruised. Whatever wrong Theon had done to the Stark family, it had been repaid in full in Sansa's mind. He wouldn't be the first to make mistakes that damned others, and he certainly wouldn't be the last. In the end, he was Sansa's saving grace. She would never have escaped from the clutches of Ramsey had Theon not been a prisoner beside her.

"I hold no hatred for Theon Greyjoy, and I will make sure that all know why," Sansa snapped, knowing that many around her would probably still wish to see Theon's head on a spike. "And he was no more a traitor than anyone else so close to my family. Or have you forgotten that, my lord?"

Littlefinger didn't flinch at her accusation.

"What does Theon have to do with Essos?"

"I have sources that say that Greyjoy and his sister have sailed across the Narrow Sea with their fastest ships to side with Daenerys Targaryen."

 _The Targaryen girl?_

Every child in the realm grew up hearing stories about the great Targaryen's building King's Landing and how their dragon's roamed the air—red flames against the ice blue of the skies. It was a warning to enemies, sent from above as if from the gods themselves. Tales were told in the darkness of night, blankets drew up to the chins of the young as wet nurses painted pictures of the Targaryen civil war—the Dance of Dragons. It was the beginning of the end for them, both in the skies and in the thoughts of the people, the creatures quickly thought to be no more than myths.

Whispers were shared even now on how wild the Mad King was and how Rhagear Targaryen had no right to steal Lyanna Stark away from the strong love of young Robert Baratheon. And after all their deeds great and terrible alike, the Targaryens were reduced to nothing more than two young children—the girl not much older than Sansa—sent off to the busy free cities of Essos. There were hardly, if any, who expected to hear the Targaryen name ever again rise to the stature it had once been for so long.

So what in seven hells was the Greyjoy fleet doing along side of the former rulers of Westeros?

"Then the Greyjoys continue to be as daft as they always have," Sansa expressed, turning back toward Littlefinger. She was getting tired of this roundabout conversation with a man who took pleasure in stretching out how much more he knew than his company. "They are yet again choosing to take placement with the wrong side."

Littlefinger smiled at her temper as if it was his sole purpose to rattle her. "Starks—so quick to assume. As a former seat at the Small Council, my lady, I can tell you first hand that the happenings of the Targaryen blood had been far more under wraps and developed than anyone had let on to the public. Your father knew well that the Targaryen girl had married a Khal of the Dothraki so her brother would be given an army of savages to take back the throne he thought was his. A failed attempt on her life sent by the King fueled the girl's fire to win the Iron Throne for herself.

"While Starks, Lannisters, Baratheons and the rest of the Seven Kingdoms have been fighting amongst themselves and the dwarfs, wildings, and bastards, Daenerys Targaryen had surpassed both her brother and husband with dragons in the sky and an army of Unsullied on the ground. From the Dothraki Sea and Vaes Dothrak, Daenerys Targaryen has traveled around Slaver's Bay, conquering city after city, freeing every slave and punishing every master. At this very moment, the mad King's daughter sits upon a throne in the great pyramid of Meereen, but her mind is set upon a throne far more uncomfortable and home to the many asses of unfit kings."

Sansa interrupted Littlefinger's tale to add on her own detail. "And now Cersei has claim to that throne."

It wasn't just shock and confusion that shook Sansa when news reached the north about King Tommen's plummet down the Red Keep. Sansa couldn't grieve his death, but he had been a sweet boy during her time in King's Landing. The more disturbing news was that the Sept of Baelor had been destroyed, inundated with the bright, emerald flames of wildfire that had been so heartlessly placed under the feet of hundreds of thousands of the capital's citizens. It wasn't all the death and dying that Sansa thought heartless but that those who did had little to do with the war plaguing the kingdoms.

Sansa's thoughts changed over to Margaery Tyrell, her smug, knowing, beautiful smile carved into her mind. She, too, had been kind and welcoming. She had even insisted on being friends with Sansa, wanting to bring her to Highgarden and away from the torment of Joffrey and the Queen Mother. Margaery hadn't been her friend—not really. The young woman had been playing her part just as everyone else did in that city. She played a friend to Sansa, a maiden to the public eye, and faithful, loving companion to all her husbands. It was that role that got her killed. Cersei saw to that. Perhaps if Margaery hadn't gotten so prideful and cocky in her ways of seducing Cersei's children, she would still be breathing instead of her ashes riding the wind.

Or maybe Cersei would have killed her either way. Sansa was nothing like Margaery, and Cersei didn't like her any better. The prude or the whore? Cersei preferred to choose neither. So a third option was made.

The others didn't understand what is meant that Cersei now sat upon the throne. To Jon—who had never set foot south of Winterfell—and his allied lords—old men set hard in their ways—even Brienne and Podrick often thought very little about the Lannister woman sitting at the top of King's Landing when so many other events were happening closer to home.

"So she's got tits," a lord had said when the news was shared with the visitors of Winterfell. "The throne is no place for a woman, especially a bastard birthing Lannister like Cersei. Either way, tits or not, she'll fall just the same."

Almost all had agreed with the man, but Sansa knew better.

The only voice that rivaled the popular opinion was Lyanna Mormont. "Cersei Lannister has gained more in her life by sheer persistence than most do by their dying breath that have money, armies, and the knowledge on how to use them. Place any man in her role, and they would undoubtedly have failed."

Small as she was, no one dared argued, but there were murmurs of rebuttal. Still, Sansa was glad that someone else saw the danger that Cersei posed. Little help it did in the end.

"What a wonder it is," Lord Baelish's voice brought Sansa out of her troubled thoughts. "First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Seven Kingdoms."

It was enough to give anyone nightmares.

"Everyone thinks the world is going to end with a War of Kings, but it's underestimating the queens that give them the power that will end us all."

He was staring at her carefully now, boring into her, and Sansa began to feel uneasy. She turned her head away, seeing Jon walk away from his company. He locked eyes with her for a moment before tossing a glare at Littlefinger. Jon started heading their way.

A gust of wind fell into Sansa, as if carving a path for Jon. Sansa shuttered, all of a sudden colder than she used to be. She looked at Littlefinger. She knew that it was high time she took her leave. "Thank you, Lord Baelish, for sharing your knowledge."

Sansa had once again started to escape the sneaky clutches of Littlefinger, but his words always seemed to make her immobile. But this time, when the Lord of Mockingbirds said what she really intended with his conversation, he was the one to take leave first, having gotten out the final word. "Remember this, my lady, there are only two ways this war can end—with a throne or a mountain of rubble, but iron or ash, someone needs to sit upon it. It's who that has countless possibilities."

Sansa said nothing in response as she watched Littlefinger glide away moments before Jon made it to her side. He, too, watched the man take his leave, but no doubt with much more distaste.

"What did he have to say this time?" Jon wondered, his voice dull. Clearly, his lack of enthusiasm came from the idea that nothing worth listening to ever came out of Littlefinger's mouth, but Sansa knew that he was greatly mistaken.


	4. Chapter 4

**04\. Feast**

In the Great Hall, all food was displayed on silver platters, goblets were filled with wine, and chairs were ready to sit the fat egos of the noble leaders, but the Winterfell household was miles away. With minds on more dangerous things, Sansa and Jon, joined with Tormund and Ser Davos, all gathered together to discuss the news that Littlefinger had delivered.

"You wish to believe the treacherous words of that man," Tormund grunted, his voice matching his rough appearance. Sansa and Jon, even Ser Davos, had cleaned themselves up for the arrival of allies, but Tormund looked as he always did. His worn and dirty furs looked like the frozen ground after the first light snow. But new clothes or not, even he knew to be cautious about Littlefinger.

Jon quickly backed up Tormund's words, giving Sansa a hard look as he placed his hands on the table before him and leaned forward. He did that often nowadays when speaking about friends and enemies and strategies. Sansa began to realize what burdened pose it was. The weight of what he was fighting for was pulling him down. "After everything Littlefinger has done to you, to father, how can you even begin to think he's telling us the truth?"

"His head should be struck from his body. Leave his for the crows." Tormund picked up, cutting off Sansa before she should even begin to speak.

"I know who Littlefinger is," Sansa explained, looking from man to man. "And believe me when I say he will be a feast for crows one day when all is over. And I will be there when it happens, but until that day we need to indulge him."

Jon and Tormund exchanged disapproving glances, but Ser Davos did and said nothing until after Sansa finished her plea.

"Despite what we believe, Littlefinger isn't a liar. He skews the truth, he doesn't make all of it up."

"Sounds like the same thing to me."

Sansa barely glanced at Tormund in the chance that it would only encourage him to go on. "I'm not telling you to follow Littlefinger blindly into an execution room, but asking you to heed what he says before you toss his words aside."

Jon didn't look convinced.

"What do you think will happen if Littlefinger realizes how little we think of his advice?" He did not give them freely; and did not waste them; and did not share them on ears unwilling to listen. Her eyes locked with Jon's, fierce and with ice in her gaze. The sight of Jon flinching back at her sudden stance made Sansa prideful about what she was trying to accomplish for her family and for the north. "Father was just that, stubborn and unwilling to see that sometimes it's necessary to walk alongside someone like Littlefinger. He put his coin on the Starks once but pulled out the moment Father strayed from the word Littlefinger told him. Littlefinger is among us now because he sees us as an open door to what he desires. If we don't humor him, he will turn away from our family once more, and there's only one way that can end."

Sansa finally let herself take a breath. She hadn't realized how much she had rambled on, but she only hoped some of what she said took hold onto something in Jon. No longer was she going to have her current concerns go under minded.

"Between the horrors in the north and Cersei sitting on the throne in King's Landing, we need what Littlefinger has to offer. Knowledge. It matters little if you approve of him or not."

When there were silence and odd glances exchanged between the men, Sansa began to wonder if she had overexposed herself. No matter how good and sensible Jon was known to be, even he couldn't argue that Sansa was getting too emotional about anything that had to do with moving forward. Her sudden need to keep Littlefinger close would only further this case to remove her from any and all future meetings on strategy.

Jon began tapping his fingers against the table, with his gaze down as if studying the craftsmanship of the wooden table. "Does he offer any way to verify what he says?"

Sansa was quiet. She wanted to say that dragons in the sky and Kraken sigil ships crossing the Narrow Sea would verify his story quite quickly but held her tongue.

Tormund chuckled hateful and full of skepticism more than humor. His words were bitter. "Verify? How? It isn't like we can send a damned raven."

For the first time that evening, Davos spoke, his voice calm and even as a settled sea. He asked Sansa, "If it would please my lady, I'll be traveling south soon. If there's any news from the Free Cities, men will pride themselves in sharing it with others for the right price."

It wasn't exactly the answer Sansa had been looking for after her plea, but it was kind of Ser Davos to step in and grant her a solution to Jon's question. With a small smile of gratitude on her lips, Sansa nodded at Davos, but she didn't know how much help he was going to be for her. Littlefinger had countless numbers of his little birds that chirped secrets in his ear thought to only be known to the one who made them. His services weren't easily duplicated.

"We best get back," Tormund suggest, looking at Jon now. "There's no doubt that your guests will notice your absence."

Jon nodded. "Of course." Straightening his stance, he watched as Davos and Tormund passed Sansa in silence to leave, but neither he nor Sansa moved to follow them. Instead, they stood together in silence for a moment that felt just a moment too long. In order to cut the silence short, Jon walked carefully toward Sansa, placing himself in front of her. "Why would the Greyjoys side with the Targaryen girl?"

"I don't know," Sansa stated, shaking her head. It had been one of a thousand questions she recently asked herself. "But they have some of the fastest ships in the Seven Kingdoms. If they are allying themselves with Daenerys Targaryen, how long do you think she's going to refrain from using them?"

Jon didn't answer. It was just another one of many tough questions that Sansa had brought up that evening.

"Whatever King Robert and his council had been afraid of all that time ago is about to come true. We might not have any personal quarrels with her, but she's going to act against us if she thinks that we are at risk of standing in the way of what she wants."

There was a certain look on Jon's face—not one of fear or anxiety, but the look of simply knowing the truth that had been so long foretold and dreaded by men no longer breathing. Sighing, Jon ran his hand through his dark hair, admitting it out loud, "The last Targaryen is coming back for her throne."

•••

The feast had already begun by the time Jon and Sansa arrived at the Great Hall. Delicious smells of roasted duck and pigeon pies, lamb chop stews mixed with boiled potatoes and spicy onions, freshly baked raisin bread smothered with melted butter, and collections of pies and pastries all swirled together in a dance of savory and sweetness that would make any mouth water.

The bellowing laugh of different men echoed through the room as they drank their wine and shared their unbelievable stories. Tormund was one of them, and his voice well outdid many of the others. He was largely among his own kind, wildings that decided to stand behind him and stay at Winterfell, but plenty of noble birth stood around wishing to hear his tales. Sansa watched him as she and Jon took their seats together next to Bran—sitting in a wheelchair specially made for him to move easier—and Meera. His rough exterior from earlier on had quickly changed as he ate and spoke, spoke and ate. Every once and a while Sansa could see his eyes flash away from his well listening crowd and in her direction. But it wasn't Sansa he was sneaking a look at.

Brienne had been invited to sit next to Sansa at the feast as Sansa found it unlikely that either she or Brienne would have much to say to any of the newly arrived guests. Brienne had graciously accepted Sansa's invite and made herself comfortable at the head table. Through the food and drink, the knight was paying no mind to the ginger-haired man. However, there was no doubt she knew that he was her. Her senses were burning with the unwanted attention. With very few activities worth smiling about nowadays, Sansa often found the newfound and awkward romantic tension between them utterly laughable and amusing.

Filling her own cup with wine, Sansa smiled slightly as the dark bitter drink grazed her lips. She spoke into the shallow goblet; her words echoing softly back to her. "Ignoring his attention continues to fail at displacing it. I'd even say it encourages it."

Brienne hauled her fork mid-air for only a moment, allowing the chunk of roast pork to teeter on its edge before falling off completely. She hardly seemed to notice. Her crisp blue eyes swiftly flickered over to Tormund's table where he was back to entertaining the ears of so many. He was facing away from them now, but Sansa wondered, as it was his turn to be spied upon if he could feel Brienne's gaze boring into his back. If so, what it as the raze of a sun, grazing the skin or a blade poking holes in the flesh?

Sansa held in a chuckled as Brienne scolded her with nothing but a hard look, choosing not to respond to her lady with words but with a fork full of food angrily shoved into her mouth.

Looking down to the rest of the head table, Bran and Meera could be seen sitting to the right of Jon—who on his own was rather stone-faced as he ate, surveying the room. Bran and Meera were smiling. They shared many pleasantries as guests, one after the other, greeted them. All had come to see the youngest surviving Stark, and although each member of these noble families were great allies that the Stark family knew they were going to need them again one day, Sansa could see that exchanging greetings and good words were not what Bran wanted to be doing at the moment.

"It's a pleasure having you back, young lord," a young man said, smiling too widely, his body movements too fluid with an overabundance of ale in his system. He couldn't have been much older than his early-twenties and was handsome to look at, but his manner was less than many of the others who were in attendance.

Bran gave a smile and a nod. "Thank you, my lord."

"With each new Stark, the strength of the north grows tenfold. Those pricks in the south won't know what to do with themselves." He had turned away from Bran and back toward the company in nearby tables. They were much more celebratory about his loud tactics. "Piss themselves or hide behind each other's skirts?"

A roar of low laughter sounded off from his corner of the Great Hall. Glasses were raised in agreement as men clasped him by the shoulders. He sat down away from the men of his house, still all smiles as a nearby servant filled his goblet, completely unaware that a similar looking man was scolding him with a cold stare from yards away. The man was just as nice looking at the young man, with the same lean body and strong stare. Although his age showed more on his face with every step he took away from his table, it was clear that a higher count of years wasn't going to hinder his ability, whether it be it be here or out there.

Placing himself before the Stark siblings, he graced them with a kind and apologetic smile. "My lords, lady, I'd like to formally say how fortunate it is to have you all seated together in the home you've been displaced from for far too long. And please—" He looked back at his young lookalike, "excuse my son. Lack of experience in these times is only one of his faults."

"There's no need to apologize, Lord Kensey. Your son is simply celebrating, as should we all," Jon encouraged, giving a grim smile.

Jon spoke truth—this was a celebration, one of which they should all have been in higher spirits for, but it was clear that Jon's thoughts were elsewhere at the moment. Sansa felt guilty. She knew that it was right to expose Jon to what Littlefinger had told her, but she was beginning to think saving it until after dinner would have been best.

Most of the remaining feast went as expected. Jon led a formal speech halfway through, announcing the reunion of his brother Bran, and his companion, to Winterfell; and Bran thanked all who attended and came to the Stark's aid; and cheers, applause, and raised cups engulfed the Great Hall.

The mood at the head table shifted for the better soon after. More wine was drunk and dark thoughts were pushed aside. Bran was able to enjoy in light conversations with his siblings and Meera, guests no longer seeing the need to burden them with their presence—although most of them wouldn't be able to gather their wits together long enough to make the journey up to him. Even Jon's usual stoic expression brightened up, at Brienne's expense, when Tormund, full of food and drink and laughter, insisted on stationing himself next to Jon. For Sansa, lemon cakes sat delicately on her plate, just waiting for her to pick them up with an equally delicate finger and savor their sour-sweetness on her tongue. They tasted good but different. Between memories of King's Landing and the Eerie and being procured by Littlefinger once again, it was harder to enjoy them as she once had.

All in all, the feast had been what Jon and Sansa had hoped it would be, a celebration to lift the spirit of the north and a reminder that there was still strength to be had.

But the evening was far from reaching an end.

Neither Jon nor Sansa nor Bran and Meera noticed when a young banner boy no older than 12 years of age came sneaking into the hall. He kept his shaggy red hair in front of his eyes, shielding his gaze from the loud drunk men who would have thought it fun to give him a hard time. Dodging between groups of nobles and couples acting less than decent, the young boy was finally able to place himself before the Starks, breathless and trembling.

Tormund spotted the skinny figure first. The wildling's laugh was low and hardy at the sight of him. "What do you need, boy? You look as if you're about to shit your pants!"

Jon turned around to see whom Tormund was talking to while Sansa, Bran, and many others nearby looked up from their plates and conversations. Jon wasn't as quick to make light fun of the boy. "What do you need?" All lightheartedness was banished from his voice. Lord Commander Snow once more.

As the boy spoke, his hair continued as a veil to cover his face. Sansa assumed that his gaze had settled on the tips of his battered shoes. "You're needed at the East gate, your grace. Travelers on the King's Road can be seen heading this way."

All had come quietly in their sections of the Great Hall. Noblemen exchanged glances between each other as their companions and women murmured secretly amongst them.

"How many are there?" Heads glanced over to Sansa. Her lemon cakes were gone.

The boy hesitated to answer her for a fraction of a moment but quickly brought forward a response. "A couple dozen men, m'lady. A smaller group had separated at the head of the men. They're making their way through the camped men out front as we speak. Some would like to know if they should stop the travelers or let them pass."

Eerie silence took hold over the entire hall now. Jon's voice, low and in control, cut through it all with ease and authority. If he felt any uncertainty, he was able to keep it from showing. "Can you see their banners?"

"…They have no banners, m'lord."

Jon halted as hushed murmurs rippled down the long feast tables. All traveling groups sported banners that proudly and prominently displayed their house's sigil. The lack thereof only meant one thing in Westeros: no loyalties.

Sansa stood slowly, trying to appear calm. A few paces away, looking at no one in particular was Jon. Had no one been present to see the usual sullen Lord Commander having a good time, no one would have been the wiser that it had happened. He turned his head slightly as Sansa approached him. "What could they want? There's no reason for them to be this far north."

"Reason has little to do with any of us being anywhere," Tormund stated, his mockery and jokes long gone.

"But what could they want at Winterfell? Robert and Father are gone. What little ties they had with us are long gone."

Jon set down his half-empty cup and traded it for his sword, grabbing it tightly just beneath the white wolf pummel. He didn't have expected to need it that night, but without it, he felt naked. He'd never say such a thing, but Sansa figured that the great sword gave him strength and a feeling of safety.

A lack of answers led Jon to ignore all of Sansa's questions. Better not to answer them at all than give an incorrect statement, especially with so many ears around to pick up his words. Instead, he backed away from his chair and glanced at Sansa and Bran. "Stay here."

He hadn't gone one step before Sansa's hand took a firm grip on Jon's sleeve. "I'm going with."

"So am I." Bran straightened himself up to look taller, afraid to be seen as still nothing more than the little brother they both remembered.

Jon fidgeted with his belt and sword, eyes away from all others as he tried to get them to lay straight. All knew a negative response was on the tip of his tongue, ready to give a simple response and make his siblings stay put. The absence of Jon would already raise wonder and question. Sansa and Bran following would only heighten it. Jon looked up, a decline to their request less than a second from being declared, but the determined looks on their faces made him hesitate for a moment too long.

An opportunity to interrupt Jon's response was open for all, and Sansa sought to take hold of it. Whatever was going to happen outside, whoever the faces were of the men that approached them, she wasn't going to let something like worrying about the speculations of drunk, overbearing, middle-aged men stop her. She turned around, about to search for the stern and piercing blue eyes gaze of Brienne, but there was little need.

"My lady, I shall escort you, if you wish."

A wave of appreciation swelled through Sansa as she nodded toward the knight that now stood by her side, ready to do as she commanded. Not once since Brienne had offered her sword had she failed Sansa. To have her here now—however long it took Sansa to accept her—was a comfort. Sansa felt better about all the eyes glued to her.

She turned back to the young boy; he was practically shaking in his place. "Let them pass." When turning toward Jon, she was pleased that he did not object openly. "Come, we have more visitors."

 _The Brotherhood is waiting._


	5. Chapter 5

**05\. Without Banners**

There she was again, standing in the courtyard to await whatever came from beyond the East Gate. When Sansa was younger, seeing the gates rise and fall with new arrivals or returning groups of gallant and skilled men was exciting. Sunshine would create spotlights for them as they dismounted their steeds and light snow would land on their shoulders in greeting. It was always something to look forward to.

The activity did nothing but churn her stomach now.

It all gave her flashbacks to when she and her family stood side by side years ago to receive King Robert and his company. How different things were now. Sansa had been anticipating the arrival of the king for weeks because his presence also brought with him his golden-haired son—Prince Joffrey. News of how handsome the prince had been was all Sansa could concentrate on. Very little pulled her attention away from him. It was summer and she was giddy and the gods gave her the betrothal she thought she wanted.

Less than half her family was at her side now in the frozen mud and frigid air. Sansa didn't wish for visitors now. There would be no royal family dipped in gold or promises of marriage and the crown or a journey to a city far away that was only beautiful and glorious in theory. She wanted to kick herself for believing that was all that mattered in life—beauty and marriage and happy fairytale weddings. Her parents had raised her young and stupid. Sansa wished to be that again, to step into her younger self alongside her whole family—alive and well—and greet the king. She'd make very different choices if she could do it all again. Above it all, she'd make sure to stay as far away from Joffrey as possible.

The heavy grind of the metal gate ascending brought Sansa back to the present. She shook her head slightly to rid herself of wishes and redoes. None of that would help her now. The present was as it was, and she'd have to live with that.

Nothing came out of the threshold at first but harsh winds that doubled as ghostly whispers. Many more than just Jon, Sansa and Bran stood to wait. Guests that should have been drowning in wine were only steps behind their hosts, just as curious as to what could make the Brotherhood travel so far north without proper invitation.

The light sound of horse neighs and ice crystals being crushed under heavy hooves came first—both slow and lazy. Then a figure, two, three, ten stepped through the gate and around the bend to face their awaiting audience. They were a ghastly sight to behold. All were covered in heavy snow, skin different shades of pink from being in the cold too long. Most wore chainmail and wool tunics, wrapped in thick cloaks and furs, but it didn't do much to keep them protected from the newly beginning winter.

Two men singled themselves out from the rest and rode up to stand before Jon, Sansa and the others. The man on the right gave them an almost smile, not sensing that this encounter was uncalled for. His hairline was receding, but still he had a hair knot upon his head. Much had fallen from the knot and had become windblown and straggly. There was little about this man that would make Sansa look at him twice, but she found him oddly familiar, though she couldn't place where. She stole a glance at the partner on the left. He was much more interesting to look at, none of which had to do with the patch he wore on his eye or the scars on his face. He too had windblown hair, but he was short and manageable with facial hair trimmed and soft. Lines surrounded the one eye that could be seen, heavy and mindful.

Sansa imagined that his man would have been very handsome some years ago when life had not taken such a heavy toll. In fact, she knew that he had been. She knew these two men, though it felt like a different lifetime, a different her since she had last laid eyes upon them.

"You're Thoros of Myr. And Beric Dondarrion."

Beric Dondarrion smiled at Sansa and bowed, though she couldn't tell just yet if it was heartfelt. "My lady, how you've grown since I saw you last."

Sansa nodded in response, unsure of how to go at making conversation with men she only knew in distant passing. She turned over to Jon. She was as good as any to make the introductions. "The Red Priest, Thoros of Myr and Lord Beric Dondarrion, Lord of Blackhaven. They were in King's Landing for the Hand's tourney."

Thoros laughed, slapping Dondarrion on the arm. Snow flung off his clothing. "Ha! Do you remember that joust? Landed right on your ass!"

"Bastards luck was all. Lord Snow—or should I call you Lord Commander? Or The King in the North? You've faired for yourself quite nicely of late. We've heard plenty of stories about your affairs since your father died."

Jon didn't wish to take part in small talk. "Why have you come this far north, my lord? Why to Winterfell?"

A small smug smile crept across Thoros' face as if to announce without words that he knew something very important that Jon did not. The action was not at all comforting. "You'll be glad we did, Lord Commander Snow of the North. We're granting you a favor and presenting a gift."

What favor would they give so willingly? Sansa wondered, not convinced. They left their banners behind for a reason—to bow to no lord. Not many granted favors to nobles they didn't want to have ties with. What gift could be so worth the travel?

Beric Dondarrion took a single step forward, no smirk like his companion, but a look of all seriousness and stone. Sansa could see the highborn Lord rise within him. "We all know our lands have a bigger threat than false kings and murderous queens, and with winter's arrival, little time now separates us from Them."

"The night is dark and full of terrors." Gone was the playful smile on Thoros' face. In its place was something knowing, calculating, and fiery as he gazed at Jon. But there was more. He was studying Jon, examining everything that could be seen on the outside just as easily as what none but the gods themselves could see on the inside. "But you know that well, don't you, Lord Snow?"

Jon revealed nothing. "My lords, is this you offering us your swords?"

It was all a bit unbelievable really. There the Brotherhood Without Banners were, willing to take up banners.

"We're here to serve the realm, Lord Snow, nothing more. What needs to be done is bigger than any one sigil. But if you're willing to take our swords, we're willing to wield them."

Jon said nothing, so another said it for him.

"Thank you, my lord," Bran spoke up, voice even. The little lord was no longer little, "for traveling this far to aid us. Please, make yourselves comfortable here. A feast is already underway."

Sansa smiled as Bran declared his appreciation. He was so much like Father at that moment.

Dondarrion nodded to Bran politely and said, "We thank you very much, Lord Stark. But before we progress further, I think we shall present our gift to you now."

"We would have returned it long ago," Thoros started, slightly smiling again, "but it was…misplaced shortly after we acquired it. Luck would have it we were reunited."

As if on cue, more horses appeared, carrying more riders of all shapes and sizes, and just as worse for wear at those who arrived before them. Were these men the "gift" Dondarrion and Thoros spoke of? Why all the suspense and theatrics? Men were men.

That's when a single rider came forward, the remainders of the group moving aside with much hast to create a straight shot to Sansa, Jon, and Bran. Several yards separated them and the rider, but time passed as if it were miles, stretching on and on.

Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr continued to watch in amused silence.

The rider wore a dark brown leather tunic and matching knee-high boots over tan pants. A large, dark blue-grey wool cloak rounded their shoulders, making their relatively smaller frame seem bulky. Her hair was just about shoulder length, shorter than either Jon or Sansa or Bran had ever seen it, but the same dark shade as Jon's—as their father's.

A realization hit the Stark siblings almost all at once, like a ghost from the past had just plowed into them.

"Arya," Sansa barely breathed the name, it practically getting stuck in her throat. She blinked once. Twice. She was worried that her eyes were playing tricks on her, trying to get her hopes up and then rip it out from under her. It can't be.

But it was.

The horse she was riding was still walking when Arya swung her left leg over and slid off the side of the saddle. Her feet hit the frozen ground with a thud; loose bits of snow and dirt were thrown from their designated places. Memories of Arya trying that same move when she was younger dance across Sansa's mind. Arya could never get the landing quite right. She'd always stumble forward then fall back on her side. She'd complain to Father that her ankles stung. If they stung now, she didn't let on.

Standing up straight after her dismount, Arya simply stared at them. Her siblings did the same in return. This was it—the Stark reunion that all of them had been thinking of since that fateful day when they left Winterfell. Each was so sure of what they were going to do with their lives then, what experiences they were going to have on the Wall or in King's Landing, of which none came true. Their reunion was the same. There were no suspense fill days in preparation for the arrivals back together or fun stories at the tip of their tongues for when they gathered in the same room or their parents to wrap them in hugs and cover then in overbearing kisses. Their once anticipated reunion of dreams was nothing much more than snow and death and a dozen of watchful eyes.

But there was a split second where none of that mattered—not the strangers present of the fact that only half of their bloodline was alive to experience it. That moment came when Arya bolted forward. She took off like the wild stallion Sansa always thought of her as, hooves denting the ground, each step bringing her closer to her family and her home. It was a hard impact when it finally came. Arya wrapped an arm each around Jon and Sansa's shoulders, practically jumping into their arms and pulling them toward her. These embraces were hard to come by nowadays.

"I can't believe you're actually here," Arya whispered into her siblings' ears.

"Us?" Jon almost laughed as he pulled her away, checking to make sure she was unhurt and real. "For the longest time, there was thought you were dead. Where have you been? What happened to you?"

Arya looked Jon and Sansa up and down then moved her focus down at Bran. She knelt down to hold him tight. "It's a long story. Very long in fact."

"And I'm sure Lord Snow had much he wishes to enlighten you with," Thoros said, taking a couple of steps forward. "But I'm sure that can all wait until we have food in our bellies and ale in our cups."

Thoros of Myr was a bold man by nature but grew even bolder now that the Brotherhood had presented their gift. No one could begin to think of rejecting them now even if they had wanted to.

"Of course, my lord," Jon stated as he stepped forward, holding out his hand to Beric Dondarrion. The leader of the Brotherhood graciously clasped Jon's hand with his own. "You've earned our favor."

"You and Thoros are more than welcome to sit at our table. If your men don't mind, they'll have to make camp just outside the castle walls with the rest." Sansa nodded at the men.

Dondarrion turned his head to look at Sansa. "Our men are grateful, my lady. But if I may, can a third spot at your table be found? There is another that I must insist sit among us."

"And which brother would he be?"

Arya eyed between Sansa and, surprisingly, Brienne as if wondering how this next bit would play out for each of them. But she said nothing, and Sansa didn't care enough to question her at the moment on what her glance meant. It wouldn't have mattered even if she had. Beric Dondarrion answered her question with no hesitation.

"Sandor Clegane."

Sansa felt Brienne tense beside her, both remembering the story she told to Sansa about running into Arya, traveling with Joffrey's former sword shield, near the Eerie. A fight between them led to yet another of Arya's disappearances and the Hound falling down the side of a rock covered cliff. It would be too much to assume he held no hard feelings.

The man sat upon his horse several yards away from Thoros and Dondarrion, a couple other of the Brotherhood in front of him, but Sansa still couldn't believe that she hadn't noticed him. There were no more than a dozen men that stood before her before Arya and the others came, but even after years, his appearance had not changed. The Hound was still a large man, much more so than any of the noblemen's men with only a few wildings with the ability to even try and stand against him. His expression was still gruff and unhappy, if anything, indifferent. And his scarred face was still promptly placed on the right side of his face. He was still the Hound, he was all more or less the same, and there he was, back at the castle of Winterfell.

He said nothing as he approached, and neither Arya, Thoros nor Dondarrion gave any more explanation as to what nature was of how this particular man came to be among them, or why a seat beside them was requested.

The name and face seemed to be lost to Jon for a moment, having never spoken to the man or looked upon him except from afar. "Sandor Clegane. The Hound? Shield to Joffrey Baratheon?"

"Was," he replied with a voice just as low and raspy as it had been so many times before. Memories of serving Joffrey hardened his expression. He'd never truly be able to run from those years under the Baratheons. "Until the ball-less brat started a war he couldn't win. I left during The Battle of the Blackwater."

The Hound's eyes seemed to skip over to Sansa quickly at the mention of when they last spoke. She was already thrown back there: the wildfire consuming Stannis Baratheon's men, Cersei's torment of being killed by Ser Ilyn if the outcome wasn't in her favor and a visit from a man so scared of fire he was willing to denounce the king and break her free from her prison.

"Clegane holds no banner, just as the rest of us," Beric Dondarrion explained, not quite a smile on his lips in reassurance to his hosts.

Jon seemed a bit at a loss at the moment, unsure of trusting a former follower of his enemies. And he wasn't the only one. Brienne was still tense beside Sansa; fingers wrapped tightly around the hilt of her sword, the memory of the fight between her and the burned man fresh in her mind. It mattered little that Arya, the reason for the fight ensuing, was right in front of her. Brienne continued to give out a cold stare.

It was returned in silence.

"A seat can be found, my lord," Sansa answered Beric Dondarrion's request. She motioned to both him and the rest of his men, eyeing each of them with a well-mannered gaze. "Please, dine with us tonight."

The Brotherhood was more than willing to oblige. None of them minded that they'd have to stay outside the walls with hundreds and hundreds of others. There was proper food and drink and warmth. It was probably more than they're received in a long while. Wasting no time, the men dismounted their horses and moved to the designated area where they would be gifted with pleasantries for their stomachs.

Sansa placed her hand gently on Arya's arm—a sisterly affection hardly ever shared between them—in welcome. Emotions pulled at her heartstrings. Arya, just like Bram, had grown up into someone almost unrecognizable. The younger sister gave Sansa a tight, closed mouth smile and grasped Sansa's hand with her own.

The moment exchanged between them was gone all too soon when Arya dropped her hand to accompany Jon and the others. Sansa was about to do the same but took one last look across the bailey.

That's when she noticed that the Hound was the last to touch his feet to the ground, patting his horse's snow-covered nose. He looked so out of place there, standing in the north amongst snow and wildings and Starks with nothing identifying his former southern allegiance. It was the last place anyone would have expected to see him. Sansa figured it was the last place he expected to be. Still, he gave the reins of his horse over to a nearby stable hand and followed the rest inside to the Great Hall, not looking directly at anyone.

Sansa's only thought was on if they had enough wine.

* * *

 **Xxxxx**

It might not be the reunion you wanted, but I really didn't want anything more emotional than needed. Neither Sansa nor Sandor are in the mood for that kind of thing.

I know it's been a long time since I've updated - at it always is, I know - but it's been especially busy this last semester. I can't even begin to say how stretched thin I've been between school and internships and work. However, that's about to change! I officially graduate as an undergrad tomorrow! I figured we can celebrate with another chapter.

Read. Review. Enjoy!


	6. Chapter 6

**06\. Practicing Lies**

Winterfell fell into a certain routine with its new guests over the next couple of days.

Jon handpicked several swordsmen—and a swordswoman—to begin training the younger abled bodies of the allied houses. Training would be performed in separate groups, each being taught in a different style by a different skilled fighter. When deemed by Jon to be well enough equipped, groups would face one another. The young were all very eager to learn how to use a sword properly and as a serious adult, and most hoped for the chance to impress Jon as he watched.

Some of the lords were still had skewed thoughts on some of Jon's new announcements. Girls too would be included in the new training schedule, and they couldn't get over the idea of putting a sword in their daughter or granddaughter, but were all too hard pressed to push their male offspring into the courtyard training areas.

Brienne offered to train the girls herself and help to make them understand they're just as capable of wielding a sword as any man. Jon had thought about her request, but he and Sansa came up with another, more uncomfortable arrangement. The girls would not be looked after by Brienne but by the most experienced and well-known men. Displeased with training girls or not, they would not let something like gender get a chance at putting a black mark on their reputation. Brienne would be in charge of those on the other end of the spectrum—young men who thought too highly of themselves. Sansa knew Brienne would be able to pound down their pride, and the woman made no complaint. The same could not be said for all those young men.

Some of that fatherly pride too wore off begrudgingly quick when sons stepped up to test their thought to be expert skills against Brienne.

Sansa watched the training session ensue one morning as she circled the grounds. Brienne was standing straight and tall, her sword in hand as she watched the young men rattle their brains on how best to attack her. Head on, loud and clumsy, and without real tactic was what they often decided upon. Each time, without fail, all but Brienne ended with their faces hitting the ground. The knight was unhurt and kept an even breath while each young swordsman rubbed new forming bruises as they took in frosty air through their panting mouths.

When Sansa came closer, Brienne bowed in her presences—something Sansa on more than one occasion explained she did not have to do each time. Sansa nodded in response. "How goes training?" She made sure her back was toward the boys to make their conversation a bit more private.

Brienne scowled. "And I thought Podrick needed work."

The two women turned around just to see a new face come stumbling forward with an arrogant strut that could be spotted from miles away. The handsome young man loosely grasped the hilt of his sword, letting the clearly new forged steel scrap against the muddied ground. Any smith would be cringing at such a sight. He seemed to miss the glares from Brienne or the sniggers from his nearby comrades who knew well his late arrival was not going to be rewarded. They all relished in the idea of someone else getting the heat of punishment. It was only when he was within their circle that Sansa realized it was the same young man who had been so loud and brash at the feast not more than two nights before.

"You're late, Kensey" Brienne stated, stepping away from Sansa and toward her pupil. He voice was low and irritated, but Sansa didn't know if it was from his late arrival or because he had bothered to show up at all.

"It's Lord Kensey to you," he snapped, half to Brienne, half to his peers, as if he couldn't be burdened to speak directly to her. The others continued to snigger. "If I remember correctly, knights answer to lords."

This was all as expected. Some of the men had troubles accepting girls being trained while some of the young couldn't fathom being instructed by one, it matters not how great she was. Both would quickly have to get over it.

Brienne ignored both comments and motioned for Kensey to raise his sword. He rolled his eyes, the mere challenge beneath him, but did so anyway. There was little need to watch, the outcome would be as all the others, still, Sansa viewed on. Brienne lunged forward.

"Big woman's got enough skill, I'll give her that."

A large figure was in the corner of Sansa's eye before she turned her head toward the low and raspy voice. It was as she remembered it to be and half expected to be reprimanded for some action she didn't realize was foolish. With his presence so close to Winterfell, she expected the opportunity for such a to arise eventually.

The Brotherhood Without Banners had taken up board in Winterfell for just over two days now, but Sansa had yet to exchange any words with Sandor Clegane. There was little to say. Or at the very least, little he'd like to hear. Gratitude was wasted on him. Acknowledging that he had been right was moot. As Sansa figured he didn't fancy any casual conversation with her, she kept silent until her chance of getting rubbed off passed. It seemed the moment had arrived.

As she glanced at him, she said, "Enough skill to take you down, so I heard."

"So you did, did you?" Clegane was not at all impressed with that response, being reminded of the fatal fight that tarnished his reputation in the eyes of all who knew. Sansa herself thought nothing of the defeat, but couldn't stop from giving a hitting blow. Brienne deserved her skill. "I'd like to see how she'd fair at another try."

Sansa found it amusing how put off he still was about it. "No infected bite now to blame should you lose."

"Sister tells you everything, huh?"

The idea of Arya sharing everything with Sansa was almost laughable. They barely allowed the two of them to stand-alone together. No matter what they had gone through over the years the two of them were still sisters with a strained past relationship. Sharing only the necessary was warranted at this point in time. Late night chats curled up in bed, swapping stories and giggling in each other's arms was not in their future.

"She tells me enough. Like how you tried to return her back to the family on more than one occasion."

They both continued to watch Brienne swing her sword with ease and mastery, trying to now teach rather than beat. It didn't look as if her words were sticking. Some of the other men often watched Brienne's display, chuckling when their young lords gained nothing but bumps and scrapes. Unsurprisingly, Tormund stood and gawked from nearby, eyeing Brienne and smiling as he almost always did when she was around. He looked as if he wished to jump in before her and join the fun.

"Tried to get rid of her is more like it," Clegane grumbled, crossing his arms over his chest. The cloth of his dirty white tunic crumpled. "Girl tell you she left me dying on the side of a cliff, too? No thanks to your blonde woman there."

Sansa nodded once. "She has her list, you know. She spoke of it briefly. You were on it once, for the butcher's boy, and she fully intended to cross your name off her list when she ran into you again."

He said nothing. He wouldn't feel guilty over the death of the young; Sansa knew that for he had done what he was bid.

"She hasn't said exactly why she left you there—alive—instead of blacking out your name, but I think that was as close to forgiveness as she could be capable of."

He scuffed, "I didn't need her damn forgiveness. I didn't want it. What I wanted was a blade to the heart."

When Brienne told Sansa the story of how she crossed paths with Arya and the Hound, Sansa didn't really have time to stop and think what it all meant. Between escaping the Boltons, learning that Arya was still alive, and meeting Jon at the Wall, the realization that many thought the Hound dead didn't hit her as hard as she expected it to. It wasn't until Arya returned that she was given full extent of his prior injuries. A blade to the heart was the last thing Sansa wanted.

"I can gather Arya's at least a tiny bit pleased you're well, of course, she won't admit it." Sansa revealed nothing as she prepared to continue, "but I will." She didn't feel the need to explain further.

Sandor Clegane glanced at her, arms still crossed in defiance and a brutish mood, but his expression was one degree softer—if only for a moment.

"I expect I should thank you for the things you've done for both Arya and myself in the past, but I don't particularly want to be barked at for it."

Sandor didn't really let off a chuckle—he didn't find much amusing to warrant that—but his chortle was rough and stuck in the throat. Had Sansa not known the man standing beside her, she might have caught herself wondering if he was choking on his own expression. "Little bird's finally leaving behind the false courtesies and lies. About damn time."

The harsh words and mocking manner did nothing against Sansa's nerves as they would have at one time, instead, what picked at her was the name of endearment and taunting that only he used for her. Sansa thought hard about the last time she had heard the nickname, and her mind shot her back into a night of crimson blood and green flames.

 _No, little bird, I won't hurt you._

She had all but forgotten the name the Hound so often called her in King's Landing between mean comments and hard realizations. Although he was more so the same man, Sansa hadn't expected this Sandor Clegane to continue on as the Hound. The name so many knew him by was dead, pushed aside when he broke his loyalty to the crown. Sansa still found "Sandor" off and unfamiliar on the tip of her tongue, but the idea that he wouldn't want to address her with her true name was surprising. But it shouldn't have been. He only knew her as a stupid child, one with no power or control, no strong voice or true opinion, and no ability to help herself.

It would need to be brought to his attention that things had shifted.

Turning around, the echoing clang of swords now at her back, Sansa said, "I've noticed that none call you 'the Hound' anymore."

Clegane said nothing once again, always deciding to pick and choose very sparingly what he replied back on. But he was looking at her. Waiting. It wasn't an intense gaze of full curiosity. It was just a look. However, she was not looking at him, as it had always been between them.

"Perhaps we've changed too much," Sansa explained as she moved her head upward, tearing her gaze from the many unimportant objects that lay around the courtyard, and settled on Sandor's face. The first step in crossing the threshold, "to keep hold of the old names that bind us to old selves."

It was almost a surreal moment for Sansa, locking gaze with Sandor Clegane after spending so much time in his company trying not to stare or embarrass him. She had done so trying to be polite, no matter what he thought. His scars marked him in more way than one, and it wasn't hard to notice that he didn't want to be known by them alone. A true lady would not notice his face. But she had it all wrong. Looking away offended him more than anything else—especially when it came to her it seemed. She wouldn't shy away anymore. There was no reason for it.

He looked like he wanted to say something, but whatever it was, nothing came out of his mouth. For so long he had fought for the young woman's gaze, once so innocent and hopeful then scared and beaten, but Sandor couldn't prepare himself when Sansa's eyes bore into his. There was still a sadness there with echoes of a past self-imprisoned and a kindness that brought back images of her former, naïve self, but there were remnants of something new. A hard, sharp edge identical to the ice she had been born and raised in lie present within her with a fierce fire like of which the gods had touched her with at birth. It all lay simmering underneath.

Few acknowledged this about Sansa now—the Stark girl included most of the time.

Sansa took his continuous silence as an end to their conversation—there was only so much she could say on her end. After Sandor had initially fled from King's Landing, she wondered what a reunion might look like. This wasn't it. Laughter almost rose from her gut. What had her younger self-imagined? That the scary guard dog of her sadistic betrothed would come back to the hellhole that was King's Landing and insists that she go away with him? Not taking no for an answer? Even Sansa wasn't ignorant enough to expect that kind of heroics from this man. She had said no to his offer and he had accepted it. That was her mistake—one of many she'd make.

Their gaze was only seconds long, but it seemed to feel much longer. Sansa looked away first, taking a few steps forward. The snow crunched under her feet and grasped at the dark grey hem of her dress. She glanced back at Sandor, still unable to believe that he was, in fact, a real presence beside her. So few from life before were still around. "Still, I'll miss the Hound. He told me hard truths when there were so many liars."

"And all of them better than you," Sandor finally spoke, repeating words he had struck her with after she tried to thank him for actions in the King Landing's riot.

"True." Sansa nodded as she began to walk away. Training was coming to an end, and she could do with a warm bath to thaw her chilled bones. "But I'm slowly getting better."


	7. Chapter 7

**07\. Bare Hands**

Almost back to her room, Sansa's ears picked up the faint sound of voices arguing. Meera and Bran. Sansa would have continued on with no thoughts on the matter had it not been for the strain that Meera's voice carried. Her thoughts longing for a steamy bath vanished quickly.

"…not going to tell them anything?" Meera questioned, desperate and weak. "They're going to want real answers at some point."

Bran didn't at all sound like himself. "And they'll have them when I know more."

The moment that minds and moods began to calm, Bran's presence lessened among the people of Winterfell. His absence wasn't as Sansa's had been, missing only when all members of court and company convened in the Great Hall, but at all times of the day. Jon thought Bran was simply resting, making up for long and cold nights away from home. Sansa could have seen the logic in that response had Meera not sometimes been wondering the grounds alone and looking burdened.

A thought on comforting the girl had arisen within Sansa, but it was quickly disregarded. There was little to no relationship between the two, and Sansa knew as well as anyone that comforts from those considered less than family was of little pleasure.

A sign could be heard escaping Meera's lips as Sansa closed in on Bran's chamber door. Again, it was ajar just enough that one didn't have to struggle to hear the conversation on the other side. Sansa kept her distance, just in case.

"So what then?" Meera wasn't just sad or worried any longer, but angry. Sansa couldn't imagine what Bran could do to make her so. "You're just going to continue this—this plunge into memories that lead nowhere?"

"You don't see what I see. They lead everywhere." Bran showed no indication that he realized that Meera's tone had shifted. Instead, he kept his voice almost uninterested.

Meera didn't reply; the silence merely simmered between them for a few moments. Each one was more deafening than the last.

Sansa knew that now was the time to leave her post. Continuing to eavesdrop on her brother and his friend would not only increase her measurement of discomfort, but also her guilt. No amount of curiosity on Bran's behavior or what information Meera thought Bran should relinquish to others was strong enough to leave her there. With steady breath and lite feet, Sansa continued on to her

•••

Neither Bran nor Meera appeared at dinner that evening, and Jon seemed hard pressed to excuse the matter—at least for the moment. There were bigger issues at hand that he needed to deal with, and the curious behavior of the youngest living Stark wasn't at the top of the list.

"Dragon glass and Valyrian steel," Jon listed, sitting between Sansa and Arya as they sat at the head table. His voice matched his expression, pensive and composed. "If we want to have any chance at fighting the Night King, we need these two things, and plenty of it."

"Both are rare," Beric Dondarrion remarked, pouring dark red wine into a goblet.

He, Thoros of Myr, and Sandor Clegane too sat among the Starks. Davos was one of a couple important men missing from this gathering, having left only a day before to head south. Sansa didn't forget his promise to gain information on Littlefinger's intel.

"Do you have any ideas on how to get such a supply?" Beric's voice boomed in the almost empty space.

Few others sat spread throughout the tables in the Great Hall. Some might have taken their food to their rooms or sat with friends around fires and loud stories, but most would have had their meal long before. It was late now, the moon high in the sky and the air sharp. None looking at the hall now would think there were large numbers of men sitting and sleeping and shitting in almost every corner of Winterfell.

Jon's voice echoed in the near silence. "I wouldn't be sitting here doing nothing if I did. And until something comes up, it won't matter how many men we have trained and ready."

"I can't imagine finding either in amounts that we need," Sansa started. Jon and Beric turned their reads to look at her while she spoke. "You only just happened to find that dragon glass beyond the Wall, and Valyrian steel isn't forged in Westeros much less found."

The beautiful and wondrous city that was once Valyria was spoken of far and wide throughout Westeros. Maesters and Septs alike would retell the ways of the old and cherished city that fell to its end. Never more than now did Sansa wish that no cataclysmic disaster had destroyed the Valyrian Freehold. They would have all the steel they could ever need. Houses Celtigar and Velaryon would still have their precious city. Even more, if Valyria were standing, the great House Targaryen would still be housed where their distant ancestors had been. What a wild thought that was, the Targaryens keeping their Essos home instead of needing to travel west to Dragonstone. But wouldn't that fix many of their problems, from both before and after King Robert's death? Without Aegon Targaryen's conquest over six of the seven Westerosi kingdoms, there would be no King's Landings and no Iron Throne worth fighting over. There would have been no Mad King or reason for Robert Baratheon's Rebellion. There would be no Lannisters fighting to take over the realm with fear and terror or the last Targaryen threatening to burn any who get in her way. There would be no list of death Starks because of a war they didn't want.

But, just like everything else, it was more than too late for any of that.

"Your Valyrian sword is amongst the last of its kind," Sansa continued, feeling just how heavy her words were.

Arya spoke next, which didn't happen often now. Time had stripped that proactive childhood spring that had annoyed Sansa so much. All that remained was as the stone-faced being that may have looked like the sister Sansa once had but was no more familiar to her than a stranger on a street.

"Father had a Valyrian sword."

Thoros nodded. "And what a sword that was, if you call it that. Ice was like no other steel I had seen before. Gods—that sword was as tall as a man."

"And took an even greater one to wield it," Beric agreed. "Whatever happened to Ned Stark's sword?"

Sansa only knew part of the answer. "The Lannisters kept it. After Tywin arrived, I heard he was able to send for a blacksmith from Essos to turn the sword into two. Joffrey was given one. Widow's Wail, he called it."

Sandor scoffed at his end of the table. He didn't pay attention to Sansa or the others as they discussed, but could be heard slightly mumbling a complaint about another dumb bastard naming another dumb sword. It looked as if he was the only one in the world that found the practice ridiculous.

"Who was given the other? And who has Joffrey's sword now that he's dead?" Jon asked.

Sansa shook her head. "I don't know. The swords were made just before the wedding, and I left before anything about his death was decided. But in that short time, Joffrey was more than willing to act as if that sword was going to see many great battles."

The concept was unfathomable. Joffrey knew what he was doing when he brought down his steel sword on Mika, but beyond that, the boy had had no skill. Little boys and whores and girls like Sansa were easy, pleasurable to beat and torment, but Joffrey couldn't have faced a real soldier, a real warrior. He was brutal, yes, but he was as weak as the bastard babies he murdered.

Beric didn't seem as discouraged by Joffrey's wish. "And it still might, hopefully at the hands of someone more worthy of it. We can only hope fate can lead us to the two remaining Westerosi Valyrian swords."

Sansa wasn't so positive.

"Speaking of that little twat," Thoros muttered between bites of buttered bread. "What a spectacle it was I heard, watching the confused looks on the Lannister faces."

Sansa quickly realized that of those sitting at the table that none had been present at the Baratheon-Tyrell wedding. Brienne had been allowed to retire for the evening and wasn't with her to tell any details.

Thoros was still talking, "How did the Bastard King die? Different stories have reached all corners of the Seven Kingdoms. Some say live pigeons erupted from his pie and pecked out his throat, bled to death while they ate his flesh. Others tell that he drank venomous piss that was mixed with his wine that made his insides melt and leak out every hole the boy had in him. I don't know which story I like better!"

"And Lannister followers say that the Imp plotted the king's murder alongside his young bride." Beric Dondarrion didn't give Sansa the chance to hide her gaze before catching it.

"Tyrion didn't plot anything," Sansa explained, fingering the edge of her cup. She had yet to touch much of her food and drink. "And neither are the stories of flesh-eating birds or venomous wine true."

When she didn't continue further, Beric pushed on with his gaze. "Well, my lady?"

It was an odd feeling, knowing that there were so many important people sitting at the table around her—all connected with Joffrey one terrible way or another—and the only person who knew anything worthwhile was Sansa. The feeling continued when remembering that Littlefinger orchestrated the whole thing with a Tyrell and yet he would find no friends here.

So it seemed to be on Sansa to regal the audience with her tale.

"The reception had all but just started as expected, loud and extravagant. There was food and drink and a reenactment of the War of Five Kings. Joffrey was living it up, drinking up every moment he could at the greatest sight King's Landing had ever seen. At least, that's what he told himself.

"Ironically, Tyrion noticed it at first, even wandering over to Joffrey to see if he was all right. But he was too late. So was Cersei. They had put it in his wine, whatever it was, and it cut him down quick enough. None were the wiser for a while. Before long, he was seizing on the ground. Or that's what I assume. I had fled before Joffrey's last breath."

Sansa didn't have much more to add, so she ended her story with silence.

"Huh, not as interesting without the birds, I have to admit," Thoros stated, clearly disappointed that Sansa's tale had no grander element of gore or violence.

"Little shit deserved it," Sandor voiced from his end of the table, making eye contact with no one but his almost empty plate. While the others were modest with their servings, Clegane took no such steps.

Sansa shook her head, a motion none would have paid any attention to had she not said something so unexpected. "No, he didn't. Not that way." Her eyes were cast down, but she didn't need to look up to know that all eyes were on her once again.

Beric shifted in his seat as if almost uncomfortable. "Lady Sansa, are you saying that you find yourself regretting Joffrey Baratheon's death?"

The question was laughable and irritating. Could the lot of them really think a ridiculous idea like that, that she would wish Joffrey alive again? The thought made her want to vomit.

"Don't think my statement pity, Lord Beric," she said bitter and cold. "We both know better than that. But I stand by my statement. How do you think Joffrey's murder will be remembered years from now? It was withdrawn and tackless."

"Most murders are," Sandor goaded in reply, no longer paying attention to only his plate. He was paying all mind to Sansa. "Not everything can be pretty and valiant."

"I don't ask for valiant," Sansa snapped back. She could feel herself stepping into a ring of tension. She was used to it nowadays, everything created tension with the world as it was, but the fact that it was with Sandor Clegane was different. He was being hard, just as he always had been, but Sansa didn't find herself buckling under. She was charging at it. "It is how that bothers me."

"Dead is dead. Why does any of that matter?"

Sansa didn't respond. She was rather caught up in the thought of killing Joffrey on her own. Could she have done it? Killed Joffrey with her own hands? She figured not, but ordering someone else to do it in her name would have been just as satisfying.

"Joffrey will never know who his killer was, to look into their eyes and know that it was the pain he brought them that sealed his death. My only regret, Lord Beric, is that Joffrey Baratheon wasn't run through with steel and burdened with the knowledge of who held the handle."

 _Yes_ , Sansa decided as she bit out her dark thoughts on the young king's death, _with my bare hands._

When Sansa looked up to study her audience, she skipped over Jon and Beric to Sandor. His eyes hadn't left her face since she started talking back to him. Sansa held his gaze, unsurprised to see that his facial expression was blank. That would be as close to approval as she could get.

•••

Little conversation followed after Sansa's disagreement with Sandor, so there were diminutive reasons for any at the table to stay in the Great Hall. Sansa was one of the first to excuse herself, after Thoros and just before Arya, saying only to Jon that she would be in her chambers if anything new came to light. She knew there wouldn't be but didn't see any better way to announce her leave. Keeping her eyes from scanning the faces of the others around her, Sansa put distance between her and the head table.

She didn't expect any disturbances that night. Other than Jon, who was far too engrossed with problems of Valyrian steel and dragon glass and royal families out for blood to think to stop by, there wasn't anyone Sansa thought would procure a visit at this time of night. It wasn't until she opened the door to her bedchambers that she realized she completely missed the one person who would. Keeping her distance the past few days, Sansa shouldn't have been surprised that Littlefinger decided to make his presence remembered.

He was standing near one of the windows, the flicker of the fireplace flame he had taken upon himself to request be lit cascading across his frame. Littlefinger's back was to Sansa as she entered, but he slowly faced her with a smug look on his face. "My lady."

Sansa kept herself indifferent. "Why are you in my room, Lord Baelish?"

"I have some updates for you. Very pressing updates that I believed you'd like to know."

"Could it not wait until tomorrow?" Sansa questioned back, simply wanting to undress and climb into bed. None could be attempted while Littlefinger was around, so Sansa took a seat by the fireplace. "Jon may be the one you should relay this information to, as there's little I can do about any of it."

Littlefinger chuckled to himself, but Sansa had become accustomed to his behavior enough to know that he wasn't laughing at anything funny. "I think you and I both know that's not true. A little nudge is all it takes for control to change hands. All the same, I imagine Lord Snow would rather hear the news out of your mouth."

He wasn't stupid, Sansa had to give him that. As much as she didn't always wish for his company, she was the least likely to kill him. As of now, anyway. He kept handing her solid information, and sometimes advice, so she kept him around and in one piece.

"So what is this news that couldn't wait until morning? It must deal with Daenerys Targaryen, no doubt."

Littlefinger stepped away from the window, moving with a gliding motion to the chair that sat across from Sansa. But he didn't go to sit in it, but rather stood behind it, hands grasping the dark wooden shoulders. "It seems as though the Targaryen girl has finally landed on Dragonstone. Dragons and all."

"Dragonstone," Sansa repeated to herself. She made it back.

When Littlefinger had first told Sansa about Daenerys traveling across the Narrow Sea to the Seven Kingdoms, she hadn't expected it to happen so quickly. She had envisioned that there was still plenty of distance between them and the girl. Nothing about the matter had been discussed since she was all but pushed aside by Jon and Tormund only a few days before. Now that the girl was so close to them, to King's Landing and the throne she believed was hers, there wasn't much they could do to prepare for what could happen next—not that Jon thought it necessary.

Sansa looked at Littlefinger. He hadn't said much, but there must have been more. "What else?"

"The Greyjoys aren't the only ones that the girl has been able to persuade over to her side," Littlefinger explained, his tone suggesting that he was impressed with the determination. "Apparently, the companion of Oberyn Martell and Lady Olenna Tyrell are willing to aid anyone who promises them their revenge against Cersei Lannister."

The news couldn't really be considered shocking. Sansa knew very little about Oberyn Martell and his dealings, but the Dornish weren't known for lying down easily after being wronged. Oberyn made that very clear keeping his grudge against the Mountain for what the beast did to his sister. And she wouldn't have presumed anything less from Olenna. The old woman killed Joffrey with no hesitation even before Cersei was able to draw Tyrell blood. Sansa wondered about Cersei for a moment, wondered about how the woman was feeling right then. The woman thought so much of her own family name and so little of everyone else's, and as of now, every other major family remaining of the Seven Kingdoms was riding against her.

A few moments passed in silence as Sansa ran everything through her head, her eyes glued to the bright orange-red flames that danced to the emptiness of the room. Her face was getting too warm but didn't bother to distance herself. "Do you know anything about Cersei?"

"Expecting a raven from your brother, no doubt."

"Cersei isn't that naïve," Sansa asserted. "She knows Jon would never bend the knee to her. She only sent the request to make a point."

"As that may be, my lady, Cersei continues her best to find ways to intimidate her enemies."

Sansa could question a thousand times over when the Lannister woman wasn't doing such a thing. An army coming for her crown or a mouse threatening to steal the crumbs off her plate—it was all the same to her, a challenge she had to win.

"Euron Greyjoy, the new ruler of the Iron Islands is handing over his fleet of ships to Cersei. Rumors suggest he hopes to exchange them in return for the queen's hand."

The flames seemed to freeze in place at the assumption as Sansa snapped her head back toward Littlefinger. "He wants to marry her? Surely being king wouldn't be worth what it would cost him." The idea was preposterous. One wrong move on his part and Cersei would slit his throat in his sleep. The woman would fall into easy bliss with his blood on her pillow.

"A dangerous move, one would agree, but Euron is far from his defeated brother. If stories about him are true, this Greyjoy would be more than enough of a match for the ways of Cersei Lannister."

A shudder made its way down Sansa's spine, unwilling to imagine what would happen if Cersei were able to partner with someone with the same mindset as she. Sansa could only be grateful that Ramsey was taken care of.

"How strong of a force does Euron pose?"

Littlefinger was almost smirking again. Although, Sansa couldn't understand why. Now was not the time and the topic at hand certainly didn't call for his imperious facial expression. Sansa caught herself pondering if the former brothel keeping could express anything other than a smirk at all. He had been sporting one for so long that perhaps he had forgotten that there were other options available. Or maybe his body no longer knew how.

"That, my dear Sansa, all depends on Cersei. Euron can't do much on his own, although any facing him on the water would be in for a big surprise. If he can wiggle his way into the laps of the Lannisters, there's little he wouldn't pride himself in thinking he could do."

Sansa locked eyes with Littlefinger as he spoke, understanding something he might have not even realized he was sporting. At no point in time were this Greyjoy and Littlefinger allowed in the same room.

Sighing silently, Sansa stood up from her seat. She didn't know how helpful this information was to her as very few wished to listen to her, but that didn't mean that she wasn't going to try and pass it along. If anything, others would know the general happenings from across the country. "I'll tell John tomorrow," Sansa offered, making it clear by her tone that this engagement was over. To enforce that idea with her movements, Sansa walked over the bedroom door and placed her hand on the handle. She turned it, the door coming ajar. "If there's nothing else, Lord Baelish, I'd very much like to go to sleep."

Littlefinger nodded with a smile as he stepped out from behind the chair. "Of course." The man was only partly lit in the dimly glow of the fire, but none had to see him in his entirety to know that he wanted to say one more thing before his departure. "I do wish you pleasant dreams, my lady."


	8. Chapter 8

**08\. Reins & Wagons**

With the sun just lifting away from the towers of Winterfell castle as it does in the morning, Sansa found herself stepping into a place she always did her best to avoid when she was younger. It was just another way she was so unlike her siblings as none of them minded the stables. Arya and Bran could, on more than one occasion, be spotted running and weaving between the stalls and opened doors. The two older boys loved to challenge each other's riding skills. Rob beat Jon almost every time.

They had all followed more in Ned's footsteps, while Sansa let her mother make her into a lady that couldn't tolerate the smell and the mud of where horses were kept. If Sansa ever went riding, she'd get Hodor to prepare the animal for her, ignoring him completely as he did so. Hodor was no longer here to aid her. There were others she could request do the work for her, but the young lady deemed it time she gathered up her own horse.

Nix was the name of the horse she chose, spending 20 minutes sneaking a peek at the first several horses within the stables. He was of average size, no smaller or larger than any of the others, and his fur was the same shade of brown—chestnut and warm. His timid demeanor was what swayed her instantly. He was calm and proud and reminded Sansa of how Lady behaved. She liked to think that the two would have gotten along rather well had they been given the opportunity to meet, pressing nose to nose.

The young stable hand was more than willing to saddle the steed for her. Sansa was determined to do the task on her own. She's seen it all done before by others for years now. It was from a distance of course, but the general notion wasn't completely lost on her. Or so she thought. About halfway through the many latches and buckles, a voice pointed out that she wasn't doing nearly as nice as she thought.

"With holds like that, you're going to be on your ass before you leave the stable," Sandor Clegane said at the entrance of the stables. His voice suggested that her attempt offended him personally.

She hadn't noticed him there. She was tuning out all the noises and movement that came rushing in from the courtyard. Men were shouting while they worked or trained or walked around with nothing better to do. They weren't important to focus on. But now that his presence was known, there was no ignoring it. Clegane's stature was large and dark in the doorway, the light from the morning sky making him look less man and more shadow. Although she knew the voice, Sansa automatically squinted her eyes to lessen the bright glow. The action helped very little, and she quickly wondered how long he had been watching her struggle.

Unsure of how he wished her to respond, Sansa ignored his comment altogether and continued to work on the saddle. Pride told her she could figure it out on her own. "Did you sleep well, my lord?"

Sandor didn't answer in words but sounded something like a grunt as he marched himself over to the same side of the horse as Sansa, his black boots crunching every pebble and ice stone in his path. As he stepped closer, the sun's light detached itself from him. Sansa could see him clearer. He was no longer a mysterious figure but stood near wearing a grey tunic that one could assume had once been white under his dark fur cloak. He must have still been struggling with the freezing temperatures. The strings of the cloak were pulled and tied together as tightly as possible. His dark hair was windblown, as it was every time Sansa laid eyes on him. Clearly, the man either didn't care enough to own a brush or was reluctant to use one altogether.

All but slapping her hands out of the way, Sandor began adjusting the straps to the saddle. Nix's body tensed each time Sandor's fingers grazed the animal's fur, unsure of how to deal with the sudden change of a gentle touch like Sansa's to one such as Sandor's. The former shield didn't notice or care and continued on fixing the job that Sansa had poorly started. He said nothing as he did, so Sansa placed herself in the horse's line of sight to keep him calm.

Neither of them spoke. The only noises echoing around them were the nickering within other stalls and the muffled voices of those outside. Although not uncomfortable, she didn't approve of the silence.

"Do you miss him," Sansa started as she rubbed her palm against the animal's nose, the skin there soft and smooth. She felt Sandor's eyes flicker toward her in question. "Your horse. Stranger was his name, wasn't it?"

"It was just a horse," Sandor replied, pulling on the last strap so hard Nix fumbled a bit to the side. "Nothing special about the thing to miss."

Sansa wasn't stupid enough to believe that for a moment. Tales were told many times in the King's Landing stables, even in his first visit to Winterfell all those years ago, of Sandor Clegane's large and quick-tempered horse, Stranger. If it was true that animals and their owners could match each other in looks and personalities, a prime example would have been the two of them. Both were angry and judged and found more solace in each other than anything else in the world. Sandor was the only one the horse would calm for, and Stranger was the only one the man was always kind to.

He could act all he wanted. Sandor missed Stranger no less than Sansa missed Lady.

"I would have thought he was the one thing that made King's Landing tolerable."

He certainly didn't wake up anticipating seeing Joffrey's face every day.

Sandor snorted, grabbing the bridle and reigns that hung on a nail post nearby. Nix kicked his head back at the sudden movement of Clegane's hand near his snout, but when Nix realized the burly man meant no harm to his face, he nibbled the bit into his mouth. "Nothing's tolerable about the damn place. Fuck the gods if I ever have to go back."

Arguing with his comment would have been worthless and tiring, mainly because his words were right. While Sandor may not have had the eye for all things expensive and beautiful, Sansa knew just as well as he did that what that city held wasn't as nearly enough to tempt them to take another step inside. She'd never leave Winterfell if she could help it.

Sandor stepped around the horse, the reins still in his grasp, but didn't hand them over to Sansa as he mused, "But seeing that bastard's face as he died would have been close to it."

"You'd have been Joffrey's sworn shield then, sworn to avenge him," Sansa explained as the two took small paces toward the opening of the stables. After the first tug, Nix followed obediently between the pair but lagged behind just enough to allow the two to have a clear view of each other.

"Doesn't mean I wouldn't have applauded the one who did it. Should have killed him myself when I had to chance."

Sansa thought back to those chances, both her and Sandor's, but could only remember the time in which their chances aligned as one. Too bad he decided to squander that chance. They had all been there, Sandor and Sansa and Joffrey, standing by the wall in King's Landing that put the heads of her loved ones on display. _So close_ , Sansa remembered her brief moment of bravery. _Was it actually bravery?_ It could have just been pure stupidity and risk and a part of herself that no longer cared what happened to her. She wanted to push him over the edge, to feel as his body tensed at that realization that he was moving downward. Ser Meryn would have strangled her or Cersei would have called for Sansa's head to be placed next to her father's, but it might have been worth it. It could have been worth it had Sandor not pulled her back. He saved her from being stupid but in return kept the two of them trapped.

The sun was higher and brighter in the sky, wrapping Sansa in a golden glow as she and Sandor exited the stables. Although a beautiful sight, the light did nothing to warm the air. Snow still glided down to the ground, settling lazily on everything that wasn't covered. Sansa lifted her hand to her forehead to shield her eyes at the sudden change in atmosphere. The early breeze began to pick up the smells of the horses and all they left behind. It didn't impact Sansa nearly as much as it used to. Instead, her mind sought out the fragrances that allured her: the spice of the large pines, the crisp freshness of the frozen water, the smoke and earth rising from the man beside her.

"That might have made it better, although still unsatisfactory."

Sansa could practically hear as Sandor rolled his eyes. He shoved the reins over to her as he grumbled, clearly annoyed with her inability to celebrate the young bastard's death. "Again with that shit. The boy's dead, you of all people should be thanking those damn gods you're fond of so much for killing him before he killed you. All you're doing is complaining that his death didn't go as you planned it."

Sansa heard Sandor mumble something under his breath. It sounded like more criticism, which Sansa was easily able to ignore. He still thought of her as some spoiled brat who wanted everything her way. She didn't even know what "her way" was anymore. She didn't know if she had a way that was much more than to get through the next day without worrying about who wanted to tear down the castle walls.

"You're right," Sansa replied, no hint of annoyance or malice in her voice. She wouldn't be able to make Sandor Clegane understand anything she had to say and that was fine. To her, there was little point in relishing the fact that Joffrey was dead, no matter how many of them dreamed of it. Westeros was still a mess, and he got to leave it thinking he ruled it all. "But that fact changes nothing. "

The courtyard wasn't busy this early in the morning, only a few men crossing here and there. They were most likely trying to find a chamber pot or a plate of breakfast. Not all acknowledged Sansa, but no one motioned at Sandor. Anyone outside of the Brotherhood's clan found it best to keep to himself around the large, brooding man. Sandor probably preferred it that way. The fewer around to notice him, the fewer chances one would irritate him enough to require a beating.

Since so few were residing by the gates of Winterfell, it took little time to spot the horse and wagon hooked up nearby. The prospect didn't alarm her at first. Several people traveled outside the walls nowadays, all their belongings tucked tightly inside. She seldom knew them well, if at all, but this was different. The figure standing next to the wagon wasn't some unknown follower deciding to go their separate ways. This was a familiar face. This was a face that she hadn't expected to leave so soon.

"Meera?"

Absentmindedly, Sansa tossed the reins back over to Sandor. He fumbled with the cracked leather strips a moment. Neither of them acknowledged the exchange. Sansa was suddenly preoccupied with someone else, and Sandor was more than capable of being annoyed on his own, after the surprise of an unfazed Sansa throwing something at him wore off. There was no reason to ask him to hold the steed for her. Sansa knew he would, but she didn't think that Sandor would continue to follow her footsteps. He did.

"Meera?" Sansa called again. Her voice held no sense of confusion, but the feeling still grasped onto her bones. What could make her little brother's companion of such a long time decide to depart from them now? Whatever Meera's reasons, Sansa knew they weren't good.

Meera was wrapped in the same fur coat she'd arrived in, but the number of layers she allowed herself increased. Even she knew the winter was getting worse, despite no longer being so far north. Perhaps the prospect of warmer weather was what fueled her journey south. Not that much would be found there. It was still a better thought than whatever the reality was. The girl wore a heavy expression—one of worry and death and exhaustion—an expression that deepened at the sight and sound of Sansa heading her way. Still, Meera turned to greet her nonetheless. "My lady."

The wagon held any and all possessions Meera had with her when she first set foot in Winterfell, but the bulk was added preparation for her leave. There were bundles of black and grey fur blankets; woven food baskets carrying cheese and bread; worn leather sacks bloated with bitter wine. It takes time to prepare, and the time had been taken.

"You're leaving?" It wasn't a question, but Sansa voiced it like one. She didn't want to sound accusing.

Meera nodded. The usually confident young woman began to fiddle with the dark grey fur gloves in her hand, looked down at them more often than necessary. "Yes, I am."

When no further explanation was offered, Sansa pressed on. "Can I ask why?"

Meera hesitated. She either didn't want to say or couldn't find the words to say so. "I need to see my family. I need to tell them about my brother."

Sansa nodded but said nothing right away. Something still wasn't right. There was little doubt that Meera needed to tell her family what happened to her brother, Jojen, but while it wasn't always the ideal way to do so, she could have sent them a raven. The news would reach them quick enough. She wouldn't have to leave Winterfell. No, her departure was for more reason than that.

"You're running from Bran."

For a moment, it seemed as if Meera was going to refute Sansa, but the little fight that flashed across her eyes faded quickly. She was a single leave clinging with all her might to a sturdy tree only for the branch it's on to shake it off. "A lot occurred beyond the wall. We saw things. Bran—he saw things, big things that we could never fully understand. It was all so much, and it changed him. He's not the same person I knew. He's not the same person you knew."

"I've begun to notice."

"I care for Bran, I do, but after everything—he doesn't need me anymore, and I need to go back to my family."

The sorrow that dripped off of Meera's words was disheartening. There was little doubt that she wanted to go home, to see the family members that were still living. But there was little doubt that Meera would have liked to stay by Bran's side if she could. His loss of interest in almost everything made that desire strained.

Sansa nodded her understanding again.

Meera managed to present a small, sad smile before turning back to her wagon, motioning to the driver that she was ready to leave. He waved off some of the men near the gate and then hollered to them. It was a noise rather than a word. It was enough to warrant the Winterfell gate to be opened. Meera started longingly down the King's Road.

"You said 'everything?' What's exactly going on with Bran?"

Facing back to Sansa, Meera shook her head. "He'll have to explain that to you. I know little more than you and understand nothing." She grasped Sansa's hand gently and quickly. Her hands were rough and strong and worthy of protecting the young man both had begun to see as a stranger of what they once knew. "I hope to see you all again."

She stationed herself into the wagon, looking straightforward. Sansa wondered if turning back, even for a second, to peer at the courtyard and balconies and walls would make Meera change her mind. Her mind and heart were being pulled two ways. The will that had gotten her this far only just won out, telling her that going home was the right choice. Second-guessing would make her departure much harder. So she didn't. Sansa watched as Meera's body rocked back and forth as the wagon wheels rolled over snow-covered bumps and holes in the road. The wind blew her dark curls this way and that, but it wasn't strong enough to turn her head back in Winterfell's direction.

Sansa backed up a few paces until Sandor stood at her side. He still held the horse reins in his hands and watched the young girl depart as well. "At least someone's getting the hell out of here."

Instead of responding, Sansa crossed in front of Sandor to take the reins out of his hand. Neither one of them were wearing gloves. His hands were slightly warmer than hers.

The courtyard was in Sansa's site as she moved. A figure sat near the railing of the balcony. Sansa frowned as she watched Bran stare after Meera as she made her retreat. His eyes gave away nothing—no regret, no sadness, no longing for her to turn around. His eyes had nothing to give away.

"Don't remember the kid being so deadpanned all the damn time."

Bran would have to explain Meera said, but Sansa wondered how much that would help. Her thoughts jumped back to the conversation she overheard transpire between Bran and Meera. The young Stark didn't seem interested in clarifying anything to Meera or the family. Something told Sansa that no explanation would give them all the answers they craved. There was no stopping the questions from materializing but dwelling on them was unfounded.

The leather straps were stiffening in Sansa's frigid fingers. Nix dropped his head, letting her know that if any persons wanted to take a ride, they would have to do it quickly. A crack in the kind demeanor showed a fierce stubbornness toward staying in the cold without the mobility of walking to keep warm. If Sansa didn't move soon, she imagined the horse would stroll back to the stable with no remorse. She pulled the horse forward. The saddle creaked slightly, stretching as she lifted herself up. She looked to the side.

"Care to ride with me?"

Leaving without an escort would prompt a frown from Brienne—that should have been the reason Sansa gave out the invite. But she preferred Sandor's presence to none.

"I've spent my time riding a horse through the fucking snow."

She nodded with a half smile. She found it amusing he graced her with a response albeit a harsh one. "Perhaps the next time. I imagine I'll still need assistance with the saddle." Nix galloped forward with the slightest kick of Sansa's heel. The pair headed through the open gate.

Meera's wagon could still be seen in the distance, leaving sallow tracks in the snow that would cease to exist in a matter of minutes.

* * *

 **Now, as time dwindles down to the 8th (agh, and final) season of Game of Thrones, theories are popping up left and right about what's going to happen. Even more than normal. I can't open a new tab on Chrome without getting three articles related to the final season.**

 **What's the craziest thing you guys have heard of? What are your theories?**

 **I've heard Sansa is going to end up with Gendry and become BFFs with Jaime Lannister. Also, Arya will live out the rest of her life in the mind of Nymeria.**

 **P.s. Did you (American) footballers see the Bud Light x Game of Thrones Super Bowl commercial? I might have started freaking out and explaining to my family the anxiety the concept of this show gives me. April is going to be stressful. We'll start a support group. :)**


	9. Chapter 9

**09\. Intentions**

A raven found its way to Winterfell one day, just after the sun reached the highest point in the sky. No one expected the paper to hold anything of importance inside despite being sent to Jon. Its departure was stationed from the southeast but not from any of the allied houses. Anyone glancing by assumed Cersei sent yet another claim to the Iron Throne and demanded the north bend to her rule.

But the scroll wasn't from Cersei.

"Why is she writing to us?" Sansa wondered aloud. She paced the floor of Jon's bedchambers. He presented the scroll to the Stark girls before relinquishing the news to the rest of the court later on. She didn't know the words on it but knew they couldn't bring good fortune. "Daenerys Targaryen doesn't know anything about us."

Jon shifted the scroll between his gloved fingertips. The broken red seal beheaded a three-headed dragon, its body swinging through the air limp and heavy. "She's not the one writing us. It seems she has someone very familiar with our family and the rest of Westeros at her side."

"Who?"

"Tyrion Lannister."

She stopped pacing. The name didn't stick between Sansa's ears at first. The list of people Sansa expected to hear standing side by side with Daenerys Targaryen was almost nonexistent, but never would she expect Tyrion. If anything Littlefinger said about Daenerys was even relatively true, the youngest Lannister was jumping from one queen eager to cut down her enemies to another. It didn't matter that Tyrion was innocent in the dealings against Daenerys and her family, he was easily risking his life.

"The Imp?" The named piqued Arya's interest, and she resorted back to the crude nickname she and so many others used.

"Daenerys names him the Queen's Hand. He writes on her behalf."

"And what does he write?"

Jon's eyes scanned over the ink on the scroll as if to see if the message could have possibly changed since he read it last. "Daenerys has a proposition for us. She's sending Tyrion to negotiate in her place."

The two sisters glanced at each other. Arya shrugged as Sansa asked, "She's sending Tyrion where? Here, to Winterfell?"

"It looks like it wasn't a request for invite, but a simple acknowledgment." Jon nodded, tossing the scroll to Arya. Arya caught it effortlessly. "He's probably halfway here already."

Whatever surprise that took hold of Arya drained away quickly. Her eyes darted back and forth just as Jon's had, like dark daggers being thrown to and fro. "She wants to be allies. She'll need the north on her side if she hopes to rule Westeros, dragons or not."

Her sister's point made sense. Everyone, even Cersei, knew that the north needed to be won over, or at least hopelessly destroyed, if ruling Westeros was going to be attempted. Had it not, the Lannisters wouldn't have tried so many times to take it for themselves. The north was vast and uninhabitable for those not accustomed to the harsh weather. Someone born with a fire burning in her soul would find it difficult to manipulate on her own accord. daenerys Targaryen's dragons may be able to melt the snow that the north built its base on, but she'd never find herself with the will to endure it when the chill settles in her bones.

But none of that meant she would leave the north in peace if they agreed to aid her.

The siblings didn't feel optimistic about the ordeal. Daenerys was just another queen looking for people to rule. But rejecting her wasn't an option. She hadn't asked and Tyrion was on his way whether they wanted to open their gates to him or not. Imp as Arya may have called him, but the man certainly upgraded his allegiances. He had found a new family to stand beside, this one just as fierce as the former.

"That might be true, but the north will not bend the knee so willingly. She must know that." Jon held his hand back out for the scroll. When Arya placed the parchment back into his hand, he gave it yet another look over before setting it down on the table. The thing rolled back up half-heartedly when there was no pressure left to keep it open.

"She does." Sansa only knew what she did about Daenerys through the whispers that Littlefinger had procured, but little of his information had been wrong up to this point. The girl had come a long way since the breakdown of her family line. Things could only further with someone like Tyrion Lannister giving her his words of wisdom.

Jon sighed. "It looks as if Winterfell will be hosting another visitor."

Sansa took a seat on a fur covered chair, the mere notion exhausting. "Remember when Winterfell was the least sought out kingdom?" The concept was unimaginable now.

"I suppose we can blame Father for that."

"I suppose." Sansa nodded because it was partly true. Ned Stark was the one who opened the door for them. He received the king, invited the Lannisters into their home, and swept his daughters to King's Landing while his sons took their new positions in the north. But that was all circumstance and each one of them knew it. The world was teetering on the edge of change and it just happened to come tumbling down the moment Ned Stark swung his sword. It should have been a sign he was doomed from the beginning. "Otherwise we'd have to blame ourselves."

The three shared a slightly awkward moment of silence before a questioned filled the air. Arya was the one bring forth the pressing matters now. "If Tyrion Lannister brings us a demand we can't agree to, what do we do? We have no chance against Daenerys' army, much less her dragons."

Sansa glanced as Jon. His head was bent down. His eyes were all but closed. He didn't need to answer, and Arya didn't really have to ask. Anyone within miles of Winterfell would have known. For if they refused Daenerys Targaryen, no one would need to fear the White Walkers and the bitter cold snows they brought with them. They'd all be visited by an early thaw and a warmth so stifling that it could burn flesh from bone.

•••

Sansa found herself back in the company of Littlefinger a couple of days after Jon's announcement. The encounter wasn't the least bit surprising. Littlefinger was bound to have much to say concerning the sudden turn of events. Or maybe he wouldn't. It was just as likely that he already knew what the scroll had within it and wished to see which side of the coin Sansa landed on. It was conversations like this one that let Littlefinger know which cards she was letting him play with. Furthermore, how he was going to shuffle them in his favor.

"It's been quite some time since anyone in Westeros has seen Tyrion Lannister. I'm sure he's in for a surprise upon his arrival. Much has changed in his absence."

Sansa agreed, wondering how much Tyrion knew what the happenings in Westeros. Did he have ways of hearing about the death of his niece and nephew? How Cersei was queen? Did he know the Freys were slaughtered, the wildlings were roaming the land south of the Wall and that Sansa and Jon were able to take back Winterfell? It quickly began clear that even if Tyrion did have ways to know that information, he more than likely didn't care about most of it. Other then what happened to Tommen and Myrcella, nothing was much use to him.

Did he wonder what came to be of his child bride?

She'd feel nothing if he didn't. She seldom thought about him.

Sansa asked, "Do you think it wise, letting Tyrion visit Winterfell on Daenary's behalf? There's no telling what she'll demand through him."

The two were strolling side by side outside, above the courtyard. The wood beneath their feet was covered with a thin layer of snow and made it slippery to walk on. She could feel her muscles tense as she concentrated on not falling.

"Wiser than waiting for the girl to send her dragons in his sted. It's no secret that she has other ways of getting her way and eager to use them."

While not all in Westeros believed in what they heard, it was hard to ignore the growing stories about the Targaryen girl. From taming a Dothraki hoard, gaining an Unsullied army, and burning any and all who stood against her, it was slightly surprising that she was offering a chance to talk and risk the need to debate. Perhaps since he was the one standing as the middleman for the two houses, Tyrion was the voice of calmer reason for the Mother of Dragons.

Sansa thought about Tyrion being the Hand, being counsel to someone who held great power. Someone who held real power. He had done a decent job with Joffery when the boy was king, but Sansa wondered what he could do with a stabler mind on the throne. He was intelligent and well rounded and one knew how the world worked far better than anyone had the right to.

Several flakes of snow began to pile up on the shoulders of Littlefinger. He glanced down at them irritated and swatted them gracefully with a gloved hand as he said, "I imagine Cersei won't like it, hearing that her traitorous brother is meeting with the bastard King in the North to speak about Daenerys Targaryen."

"Cersei doesn't like much these days."

But Cersei wasn't what Sansa was worried about. The north finally gained back its land and allies and hope for new strength. Bringing forth an outsider was bound to shake the foundation they stood on. How would the rest of the noblemen take Jon's news? This was a foreigner. From the world of old Valyrian. That had dragons and was little more than a young girl.

"Jon doesn't say what he thinks on Tyrion's visit. Nor did he ask anyone theirs." She tried to keep from sounding full of accusations, simply stating what she knew as the facts than what she felt, but she knew Littlefinger could pick up the change in her tone.

"I'm sure His Grace is doing only what he thinks is best."

The urge to stomp on his foot had to be submerged. He was mocking her as he did so very often although he seemed to think no one noticed. The disbelief he held toward Jon seeped through the many masks he wore.

"You wished for your brother to take hold for the situation with Daenerys Targaryen." He stopped walking, leaning against the balcony barrier. Dense snow atop it fell beneath them as his elbow nudged it aside. Sansa swore she heard a voice curse below. "What better way than to appease her advisor?"

"I wanted him to consider future issues, her armies and soon arrival on King's Landing. Inviting her prospects here is different."

"Knowing the intentions of your enemies is the first step in staying one step in front of them, my lady. We know what the Mother of Dragons wants—"

"The Iron Throne."

"The Iron Throne, yes, but not how. There are several elements she has at her disposal."

Littlefinger spoke as if inserting themselves into Daenerys' plans would be an easy task. Intentions were easily shrouded in smoke if the one who had them was clever enough to light the fire where others could not see the flame. The man standing in front of Sansa was a former brothel keeper, a former Master of Coin to two kings, and currently stood as ruler of the Vale. Each held his own intentions and Sansa couldn't clearly pinpoint any of them. This advice from anyone else might ring some truth but from him it was laughable.

Not much else was exchanged about the situation. It surprised her how little Littlefinger chose to speak to Sansa about all the news. Perhaps his interest in Winterfell's dealings was dwindling. She knew before she finished the thought that that wasn't true. He wanted her to simmer in her own thoughts. And she did for a moment, watching as he took his leave to go wherever he snuck off to when he left her and did whatever he did when he was on his own. She didn't know and didn't particularly care. But her eyes followed him all the same.

"Bastard talks too much." Sandor appeared a few yards away from her, eyes watching as Littlefinger moved across the courtyard. He seemed to be glaring at him. Either Sansa hadn't been paying attention to her surroundings or he was getting lighter on his feet—she hadn't heard him arrive.

Sansa glanced over her shoulder. She noticed awkward lumps of snow piled on his broad shoulders. It hadn't fallen there willingly.


	10. Chapter 10

**10\. The Wife**

"Fucker talks too much."

Sansa followed Sandor's glare back to Littlefinger, the lord whispering to a young boy now, probably some orphaned child he promised coin to in exchange for his eyes and ears. It crossed her mind more than once on how people like Littlefinger and Varys and Cersei were able to obtain poor souls to spy on them all across the world. Sansa wondered too if it were possible to get her own.

"A bit," Sansa said.

"Where's your big woman now? Isn't she supposed to keep distance between you and him?"

Sansa knew there was no love between Sandor and Littlefinger but couldn't help but question why he cared about Littlefinger's constant presence. "Clearly failing in her job. She prefers for most to keep their distance as well." She eyed him.

It wasn't true technically speaking, but she assumed it would be if Brienne came to notice how often Sansa and Sandor seemed to be in each other's company. She was a skeptical knight.

"You pop up just as much as Littlefinger. Only he doesn't drink as much."

The smell of sour wine and leather enveloped Sansa with every step that Sandor took toward her. She should be used to the smell. It was one of the constant elements of the Hound that carried over to Sandor Clegane of the Brotherhood. But the fragrance was different now. It was an odor before, heavy and sticky with overabundance and drowning. Now, it was subtle as though the liquid was only on his tongue instead of flowing fiercely through his veins. It was inviting rather than repelling.

"Maybe he should start. I imagine you have more to say on the topic of Lord Baelish? Everyone else does." Her last words escaped her mouth slightly more bitter than she anticipated.

Sandor relented to comment on the drinking statement, but he didn't say anything else either. This wasn't his normal silence. That was hard and sharp. He clearly wished to say something but finding a way to express whatever he wanted was stalling him.

"He shouldn't be here."

"One could argue he isn't the only one."

The never-knight probably thought she was talking about him, but Sandor was one of the few strangers that Sansa didn't mind in Winterfell—next to Brienne and Pod. It was everyone else not born in Winterfell that she wanted to leave. And when they did, the gates to Winterfell were going to close for a long time.

"He holds power over the Vale. No matter our feelings about the man, he's necessary to Jon's fight. Winterfell's fight. Besides, I want him here where I can see him."

"Stupid fucking plan."

"So everyone keeps reminding me."

Sandor arched a brow for a brief moment, risking a glance at the girl for less than a brief moment. She let him. He was one of many who felt the need to stare recently, to try and figure her out.

Littlefinger finished his hushed discussion with the young boy, glancing at Sansa once more before turning away. He ignored Sandor's presence completely. It was too much for anyone to assume that he'd fair Sandor with better courtesies now that both turned their backs on the Baratheon-Lannister family. The two's manner's toward each other had only soured in the north. Littlefinger disappeared within moments. He left behind a cautious faced child in his wake.

"I know who Littlefinger is, what he's done, what he wants."

"You might, but do they? Can't imagine how long he'd last if they did."

She rolled over her memories of Littlefinger, trying to remember how much she told of his involvement and to who she told them to. "Jon knows what he needs to."

"Screw the bastard. Your she-wolf sister's the one to be afraid of."

There was no argument there. Arya would have no trouble slicing the man's neck with her Needle if she knew all the gory details of their mother and father's betrayal done by their once thought of ally. Littlefinger prancing her back to Winterfell when it was still under Bolton rule, assuming right away that she'd marry for him, still raised bile in the back of her throat. Although, Sansa didn't know how much of that tale would really resonate with Arya as the death of their father did.

"Do you honestly think he'd still be breathing if Arya knew everything Littlefinger was capable of?" Sansa scoffed. "None of his reasons or whispers could save him then."

"Whatever is it, she knows something. She acts like it."

Sansa knew what he meant. Arya was always lurking around like Littlefinger but in the shadows where she was less likely to be noticed. But Sansa had noticed her. It seemed as though Sandor Clegane had as well. She wondered why the man was always so perceptive when it came to the Stark girls, but she knew to voice her question wouldn't get her any answers. She'd have to mull it over in her mind in silence.

"I'm sure she does." Sansa turned her body toward Sandor. She was sick of watching the courtyard. It was the same as it was that morning and the morning before. It hardly ever changed. She needed something different to focus on. Sandor's figure would have to do that trick. "But all of that will have to wait until after Tyrion Lannister comes calling for our men."

She didn't try to cover her bitterness. She did less and less of that lately and there was no point in stopping now.

Sandor wasn't in the Great Hall when Jon let go of the news, but that didn't mean that he didn't know. It would have been impossible. Normal news traveled fast these days, but news that outrageous and unforeseen as this took an instant to spark concerns and agitated feelings. None of that was displayed to Jon outright, his very expression after the fact said that what they thought wouldn't change anything, but that didn't keep men from talking. Late night fires and floods of ale saw to that.

"Better than calling you back to his bed," Sandor sought to remind her. He leaned against the balcony pillar and crossed his arms. "I'm sure your husband is looking forward to that again."

"Tyrion never touched me."

Sandor grunted, "Doesn't mean he never thought about it. Like any man, he won't let a lack of fucking you keep him from taking you back as his wife."

Even at the young age she was on her wedding night to Tyrion, Sansa wasn't naive enough to think that the Lannister didn't have an interest in bedding her. The lust was there when she began to undress, drunk and muddled, but undoubtedly there. His last name alone gave him the power to make her his, her feelings meaning all but nothing, but he said he would wait for herfor her consent. At that moment, consent seemed impossible, but in hindsight of knowing husbands could be worse, Sansa pondered if time would have been able to sway her.

"Is that what you would do? Make a wife who wanted little to do with you?" It was a personal question, a far more personal question than what Sansa would ask anyone much less someone such as Sandor Clegane.

He said nothing. He gave no words or passive aggressive noises mainly because Sansa almost chuckled at the idea she brought up. This seemed to surprise him enough to speak. "Something funny?"

The subject of the question in and of itself was absurd. She figured he must have felt the same as he didn't answer her. Or perhaps he didn't answer because she wouldn't like what he would say. Sandor Clegane was who he was—angry and bloodthirsty, broken and formidable—all creating a man very hard to diagnose. He wasn't per se a good man. His morals were far from pointing north, but Sansa knew he wasn't nearly as terrible as he thought himself to be. In the end, and pertaining to this particular question, none of that mattered for one specific reason.

"I never thought about you taking a wife."

"What's so damn good about a wife?"

Sansa shook her head. A light wind picked up and sent wisps of tangled red hair flying out of her plait. She thought to leave them, let them dance wild in the air, but after a couple hits to her eye, Sansa took a gloved hand to place them back behind her ear. "I couldn't tell you, as I'm sure you've heard, I don't have the best track record at being one."

Being a wife had been one of her most cherished dreams as a child. To love a nobleman and marry into his family and share his bed. To bear his children and have a happy life of their own away from the land she sought to escape from. Would she have made a good wife? She once thought so—she'd love and comfort and praise. She would have been the perfect wife then, but what about now? She'd had three engagements, two marriages, and one dead husband. Two of the worst families' last names were placed behind hers. If that didn't stain her destiny as a future wife, she didn't know what could. Stark or not, she couldn't imagine many willing to forget any of that just yet. And she wasn't sure she wanted them to.

"And to think Tyrion was the best of my husbands."

"Lucky dwarf."

Lucky indeed. The man was shackled to a loveless marriage to a child bride of an enemy family all because his hateful relatives resented him for being too short.

"Doesn't matter," Sandor took a step closer to her, positioning his body to face over the animals and men. Not a single one below took notice to the two of them. That was preferred. "There are plenty of rich assholes ready to marry an equally pretty face with a name."

It's no secret that men with half a brain and squabbling children set into motion ways of intertwining their bloodlines with high, noble, and suitable families. Whatever it takes to keep both their land and legacies thriving. Any of the legitimate children of Eddard and Catelyn Stark wouldn't want to be missed. Rob would have been the first obvious choice for any man with appropriate daughters. Who wouldn't want the chance to send their daughter off to live underneath the roof of Warden of the North, knowing that Rob Stark would one day be named to rule the largest piece of land in the Seven Kingdoms? He would have made a great husband—kind, courageous, and handsome as he was. His title as a husband was cut too short to the sister Sansa never got to lay eyes on.

Joffrey was the first son to be offered to Sansa. She had been so excited and her father had agreed but only because the request came from the mouth of his friend and king. Were there others around that time who thought about asking her father permission to wed her to their son in the future? Were those same fathers considering her now? She doubted it, no matter how confident Sandor was.

None of it mattered anyhow. "I won't be marrying again." Ever. She didn't intend to say what she did out loud to where someone could hear and respond, but the truth spilled out before she could pull the reins back to secure them. They kicked her and bucked her and left her out of control. They also left her painfully honest.

As he often did, Sandor shielded his expression, but Sansa found herself wishing for the first time that he'd bark out a laugh or tease her for being naive. His silence embarrassed her more than the risk of harsh words. And she wanted to know what he really thought about her choice. Jon would nod and say he understood considering what she's been through. Perhaps he'd tell her to keep an open mind for she was still young. Brienne would express how strong women can still be without the ties of marriage and husbands. Although she hit Sansa as a romantic at heart. Sansa couldn't imagine Sandor Clegane encouraging her to keep her heart available but knew that he'd have some sort of opinion about the matter. She wanted to know what it was, but he was a blank, closed book unwilling to reveal a thing.

"Lord Baelish will be disappointed," Sansa continued. She counted herself smug about the idea, letting the tiniest of a small inch across her lips. There weren't many victories to place under her belt of late—she'd revel in this one.

"Won't keep him from trying either."

"I'd almost be disappointed if he didn't."

A holler and a whistle from below caused both Sansa and Sandor to place their attention elsewhere. It came from a member of the Brotherhood, although Sansa couldn't put a name to the face. Unless one of them was Sandor, Beric, or Thoros, she paid them little mind. He looked as all the others did—clothed in a dark trouser and matching tunic, a darker fur cloak wrapped around his shoulders, disgruntled expression carved into his face. He didn't seem concerned that he was pointing and shouting commands to a man with the ability to easily chop his head off. The unnamed man gave Sandor another gesture and headed off, the hand he just used to signal now used to scratch his loins as he spat onto the ground. Whatever the task, he couldn't find it in him to make sure Sandor followed through with it.

Sandor grunted his frustrations but made moves to do as he was bid. Years ago he would piss on the man attempting to command him. "All this for the Lannister."

"Whatever it takes to make some sort of impression, although it is a bit underwhelming." Sansa didn't necessarily want to see him go but there wasn't a reason for him to stay. Someone would come back to look for him if he was kept any longer.

Sandor turned to go without a word for his exit. His feet thumped against the frozen wood, making it creak aggressively under his weight as he left a path of interrupted snow with his large, lagging footsteps. Only the graceful flow of his cloak could offset his rigid manner. He was almost around the nearest corner, rounding it to where the stairs leading down to the courtyard started when she stopped him.

"Let's try to make it a good one, shall we?" She caught herself almost teasing. She couldn't tell if it was to Sandor, herself, or to the whole jaded idea of everything. Maybe a bit of all three. "As what's so good about a wife if to not give a good impression?"

* * *

 **Are you ready? At this moment, it's about T minus an hour until the premiere of season 8 starts! I will be watching excitingly as I eat my limited edition Game of Thrones-themed Oreos.**

* * *

 **I've come back after watching that episode to get something very important off my chest: I hate Danaerys and her stupid, smug, self-righteous face.**

 **Whew, I've been holding that in since season 1.**

 **I know. Unpopular opinion, but I'm serious. I. Just. Cannot. Even. With. Her. And Jon making out with her? *Projectile vomits at their love***

 **Agree? Disagree? X'D** **"But I am her queen," Danaerys says. Uhm, nah. #longlivequeensansa**

 **...you pissed off Samwell Tarly... ...you def fucked up when you pissed off Samwell Tarly...**

 **I'll stop now.**


	11. Chapter 11

**11\. Ghost Stories**

There's something that ignites within the minds of men when a promised arrival goes unfulfilled, and it ignites quickly. When words and weeks came and went with no sign of Tyrion Lannister on the horizon, it wasn't long before the men began to wonder if the dwarf was coming after all. Some didn't ponder on the situation long. The littlest Lannister was simply a no show as he often was for most important events that didn't involve drinking and fucking. He couldn't have had anything to say worth listening to, so there wasn't a problem.

Most dwelled a bit longer. Quickly, their jokes fabricated several reasons as to why Tyrion had yet to appear. Imaginations ran far and wide with fantasy and perversion.

"What could a Mother of Dragons want with the Imp of Lannister?"

"More importantly, what did he want with her? Never met a pair of tits he didn't like, that one. No secret the dwarf ran straight to all the brothels his gold stained fingers could get his hands on."

"If you could call that waddle a run."

"Do you think he tried to fuck her?"

"Oh, he tried, but was met with a pair of dragons instead of tits this time!"

"For all we know, the little man wet the dragon fire between her legs. Bastard gets to ride two kinds of dragons now!"

They'd laugh and slap their knees, spilling all remnants of their ale on the ground. And on and on it went. The stories gained ridiculousness as time stretched by. Before long, the manifested tales were being wagered on. Many suspected Tyrion tried and succeeded on seducing the Targaryen and stood as Imp King of Dragonstone. The rest figured Cersei intercepted Tyrion while at the port in the mainland, chopping off his tongue and his cock. She now bore one as a piece of jewelry. None need to ask as to which they assumed she'd wear.

While the men swapped fantasies about Tyrion Lannister as they waited, Jon set out to find more information useful in fighting the White Walkers. Almost everything was a dead end. No more than three Valyrian steel swords could be found in this part of the world, and there was no promise that any more could be acquired in numbers they needed and forged correctly if found elsewhere. Dragonglass was the only other option if not a seemingly hopeless one.

The stash of dragonglass Jon obtained wasn't nearly enough to arm the couple hundred men the Night's Watch once held much less the hundreds of thousands they hoped to rally to their side. More would need to be found. And quickly. It was locating the hiding place that was causing them strain.

With no luck gaining any new information on the whereabouts of more dragonglass within the walls of Winterfell, Jon sent word to every maester in the north. The substance was now more valuable than gold and even harder to locate. The maesters found nothing.

Sansa found herself stashed away in her family's library, knowing that every book, page, and word had already been studied upon Jon's request. She decided that another stroll down the aisle wouldn't hurt. Even after Samwell Tarly, at Oldtown's Citadel who spent his time cleaning and organizing and sneaking research about the White Walkers, found the answer to their prayers. It seemed to Sansa that she found comfort in the silence and solace of all Winterfell's written words.

While Sansa saw among the books, the company of Winterfell buzzed about the news the Tarly boy wrote about: he had pinpointed the location of dragonglass. And a large sum of it.

There, of course, was one catch, and it was anything but simple. The location was Dragonstone, buried within the mountain terrain, and currently occupied by Daenerys Targaryen. It was as if the gods were trying to be humorous. No one should have been surprised really. The stone shared its name with the land it was placed on and the creature associated with the bloodline that did, and once again, called the island home. The question on how to convince the dragon girl to give up the stash of dragonglass was the next of many questions.

Not a thought of all this crossed Sansa's mind as she flipped through the pages of books she practically all but memorized as a child. But the myths and legends she fancied in her youth did nothing for her now. There was no excitement at the concept of black magic in the grasslands or frightened chills at the thought of wildings stealing children from their mother's breasts. Least of all, there was no wonder and romance dripping from the words of songs and fables she worshipped for far too many years. She knew what magic could do to a corpse, what wildings were willing to do for their unlikely allies, and how misrepresented the songs left her world feeling. It had been Old Nan's bedtime ghost stories that were truer than any of the now.

She found other things to read through. They weren't at pretty as the songs but told more truths. Or at least she hoped so. She was halfway through a worn red leather-bound when a voice interrupted her reading.

"Still reading stupid songs of daring princes and happy endings, girl? Thought you got that beaten out of you?" Sandor Clegane swung the heavy wooden door far enough to let his large frame cross over the threshold. Timid snowflakes snuck inside, melting to nothing before hitting the floor.

The girl flipped to the next page of her book. The paper was delicate and close to crumbling in her fingers. She wondered how many others sat where she sat, reading what she was reading. Did Mother? Aunt Lyanna? "They're poems."

"Words and rhymes of cockless men who've never held a sword in their hand. Same damn thing as far as I'm concerned."

Sandor closed the door behind him, cutting out the outside world. Sansa found that it was quieter now, despite having another body in the room. It caused a ringing in her ears. The two hadn't been alone behind closed doors together since their fateful departure in King's Landing. Neither let slip that that thought crossed their minds, but Sansa couldn't help but wonder if he realized it just as she had.

"I gather I should not read at all then? Rather to drown my thoughts in wine?" Sansa finally looked up from her lap. She closed the leatherbound and stood up.

Sandor almost looked stiffer as she did so as if she was a mother about to beat a babe who had just spoken out of turn. He watched her hands carefully rub over the cover of the book. She was petting it. Cradling it. Protecting it. He continued to watch her as she studied the shelves, looking for the exact spot she took it from. She'd come back to finish it later.

"Do you read much?" Sansa asked. Her light source stood next to her, a small candle melted down to about half of what it had been when she lit it. She picked it up.

Sandor snorted.

She thought as much. "You should try, you'd find that there's a big difference two been the two. But I don't assume you come in here to talk to me about my reading material. Is there something you need from me, my lord?"

He twitched but didn't cross her. "The towers have spotted something in the distance. A party heading north from the King's Road."

Tyrion.

Had the notion that Tyrion Lannister might finally be on his way to Winterfell not fallen so heavily on her shoulders, Sansa might have questioned a bit longer why Sandor of all people was the one to present the information to her. On any other day, Brienne or Podrick were the ones to relay her the message. To get to her first, Sandor must have made haste. Did he want to see the reaction on her face when he told her? Or did he simply want the honor of giving it? Both questions didn't fit quite right.

"And they assume it's Tyrion, yes?"

He nodded. His eyes never left her, either too immersed in what she might say or do next on the topic or too unimpressed with their surroundings to chance scanning over it. "They'll be here by nightfall."

"What do the others say?" She still held the candle in her hands. It would be best to blow it out and keep it for another day of reading. But she stared at it instead, watching the flame dance and wax shrink.

"The men are pissing themselves," Sandor didn't sound amused as he crossed his arms and shifted the weight of his feet. "I didn't think your family could sulk anymore than they already do."

"I don't imagine that's going to change any time soon." She looked up to meet Sandor's eye. "Thank you for telling me. I suspect we should get ready to meet him." She kept hold of the burning candle as she made her way toward the door.

Sandor didn't make moves to step aside to make more room for her or open it like a true gentleman might. Instead, he asked in a tone trying a bit too hard to sound disinterested, "What's the difference?"

Sansa glanced at him, confused. "Excuse me?"

He tilted his head toward the bookshelves. "The difference, between your songs and your poems."

She smiled as she put her hand on the door. The wood was rough and soothing under her palm. "Poems aren't written with happiness in mind." With a nod to Sandor Clegane as a goodbye, Sansa stepped out of the library and into the snow-covered yard. The wind blew out the candle before she had a chance to do it herself.

•••

As expected, Tyrion Lannister arrived at the gates of Winterfell just before nightfall. The sun was just beyond the horizon, the moon marking its place in the darkened sky, and not a single person within the castle walls was thinking about anything other than seeing a small man used to speaking big words. Tensions were high. Tyrion was a traitor to the crown, married once over to a Stark, and now allied Hand of the only person known to possess dragonglass. No outcome of this situation was typical.

They were all in the Great Hall now. Tyrion stood before Jon, Sansa, Bran, and Arya at the head table with a few from his party, a Dornishman, a Tyrell Knight, and an Unsullied soldier, one man each to represent the growing allies Daenerys was gaining as time went on. The two formers didn't well receive the harsher temps – their faces expressed high discomfort. Tyrion let them all know that the Dothraki would have loved to attend, but it had yet been convinced to them that snowfall wasn't a curse upon the land brought by too few mating rituals. Although, Tyrion did begin the wonder if it wasn't the more he spent time here. He cracked a light-hearted smile.

He looked good. Different, undoubtedly. He went without his bright, expensive clothing and his skin was slightly tanned by the Essos sun. And he was as unshaven as Sansa figured anyone in his position in life could be. His beard was full and thick. And it no longer held the blonde color that made it clear what family he belonged to. But still good, she couldn't help but think. It came from his shoulders, a little higher without the burden of bloodlines, and his footsteps, full of real purpose.

He bowed before them. "I've found myself in this hall three times over the course of my life, each with a different Stark in that seat. I find that it fits you well, Jon."

"And there are three Lannisters of importance in the world, and it seems as though your the only one I'm happy to see again." Jon smirked. They were similar in many ways the two, both outsiders among their siblings but highly inclined to pave their own path of success.

Tyrion chuckled. "Odd, that seems to be happening a lot lately."

A smile crept onto Sansa's lips. Her indifferent expression betraying her.

"Lady Sansa," Tyrion's voice turned melancholy. The feeling reached his eyes. "It's good to see you well."

It warmed Sansa's heart that she knew he meant it. She felt as though she should say something to him - how she was sorry that she left him in King's Landing, that she wished she had been there to help him when he needed it - but all she could was, "Thank you, my lord."

He smiled again. "It was a short marriage, but no one can say it was boring, can they?"

It was so odd to have a presence like Tyrion's in Winterfell. He was a breath of fresh air and had little to no problem having all eyes on him. He was going to crack jokes and lighten the mood with humorous banter and continue to do so up until it was time to make serious strides on the tense problem that loomed over everyone.

That moment came upon them quickly.

He cleared his throat, seeming to suddenly feel a bit awkward with his current affairs. He came forward a few steps, leaving his party to stay behind him. "Ehm, I can imagine it might seem quite the surprise, seeing me again after so long under this particular situation."

"You mean hiding between the legs of the dragon bitch?"

The Unsullied sneered but did nothing to retaliate against what was said.

Tryion slightly turned his face to look in the direction from which the snark came, his expression clearly exasperated. His eyebrows were raised. Had the moment been anything else than what it was, he might have made a snide comment to put the man in his place. Now was not the time. "I wouldn't say it like that to her, but that's one way of putting it, yes. I do come as a delegate for Daenerys Targaryen. She wishes to come to some sort of terms with the people of the north, with the Starks of Winterfell."

"We're to presume that these terms are hers?" Sansa asked. Every mind in that room surely wondered the same thing.

"Her Grace simply wants to know that the north would not fight her right to the Iron Throne."

That meant yes.

The Great Hall filled with murmurs.

Jon put up his hand to settle the crowd. All was quiet. "The north has their own terms they'd like to present in order to consider any form of understanding with the so-called rightful heir."

Tyrion clasped his hands behind his back, standing strong in place with some confidence that didn't seem to fit the situation. He came having expected this. "And that would be?"

"There's a substance that we believe Dragonstone holds an abundance of. We need to mine it for weapons."

The request took Tyrion by surprise as he unclasped his hands and gave the Starks a curious look. That wasn't what he anticipated in the slightest. "You wish to mine on Dragonstone? I figured you'd ask for gold or at the least the head of my sister on a spike to place on your dinner table."

Arya smiled. "That is still an option." And most in the room agreed with her.

Sansa spoke, "According to some information we've found, a large amount of dragonglass is to be buried within the base of the island. We need it. All of it."

"Dragonglass?" Tyrion wondered. He didn't try to conceal his confusion as he scanned over the people in his presence. He thought they were crazy. "Has steel gone extinct recently and I wasn't informed?"

"Steel can't kill what we're going up against."

"I'm sorry, am I missing something? Are you fighting someone I'm unaware of? Last I checked, Lannister men die nicely with a stab to the chest as they always have. You can use a shield to the head if you're really in a pinch. Even I've done that. Really gets the adrenaline up."

"Were you told ghost stories as a child, Lannister?" Jon asked.

"Of what? Giants and magical tree children? White Walkers resurrecting the corpses of men they've slaughtered? Those stories?"

Jon's lack of a response was Tyrion's answer.

He scoffed, "You don't honestly think your crazy wet nurse was telling you truths? White Walkers? You've got to be joking. You're joking, right?"

Jon was getting impatience now and his calm temperament was fading. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"I'm sure none would accuse you of such a look. But—"

Jon interrupted the excuse with the scrape of his chair moving behind him as he stood up. He leaned forward, his arms planted firmly on the table, and lowered his voice. "You and your queen tell me dragons are real. You don't see me batting an eye. Listen to me well when I tell you this: the dead are walking and they're walking this way. We have no way but this to defend ourselves."

Tyrion Lannister knew as well as anyone that Jon Snow, bastard of Eddard Stark and once Lord Commander of the Night's Watch, wasn't one to preach many falsehoods. He respected the boy, he had all but said so, and acted as though he wanted to believe what he was hearing. But some things were easier said than done. "Say I'm inclined to believe you, and I am far from saying that I am, how do I bring that to Dragonstone? A girl as she may be, Daenerys Targaryen is not going to take it lightly when I return to tell her that the Starks of Winterfell need help in fighting a child's bedtime story villain. She'd have me burnt alive."

Not many could rebuke that even if they wanted to. They would all agree with Tyrion that what they were requesting was a tall order. Each of their own doubted for generations that such creatures existed. Had it not been for Jon and the rest of those who had seen the monsters beyond the wall with their own eyes, none who currently stood side by side with Winterfell would be as they were.

Jon astonished everyone by knowing just that.

"No, I don't suppose you can." Jon stood up straight and sighed. His hand went straight to the hilt of his sword as if it was a warning against any who would challenge what he said next. "That's why I'll be going back to Dragonstone with you. I'll tell your queen myself."

* * *

 ** _Disclaimer_ :** **This is a rant. Feel free to skip. :)**

 **So... it's been about a week and a half since the finale... How are you all holding up? I ask because I know 99% of the world and their mother is pissed off at how the season finale, and season 8 in general, ended. Some of which I will admit I agree with. Jaime didn't deserve to die at all, much less with Cersei. Gendry should be on that ship with Arya. Sandor shouldn't have died fighting his toxic brother. His Grace Bran the Broken is fucking random as hell. Much more of Dany's mindset would have helped the plot along.**

 **But I will not, repeat will not, have a bitch fest about the fact that Dany became the Mad Queen and was killed. Why? Because I knew from the very beginning that Dany was a power-hungry narcissist who was going to burn anything and everything in her path. It's why I've disliked her from the very beginning. She tricked herself into thinking that she was a saint, was worthy of all, was the only one who should still on that throne, and I'll go as far as saying that she tricked the audience into thinking the same thing. Maybe that's what the best characters do, they convince us without a doubt. Who knows.**

 **And I never doubted Jon was going to be the one to kill her. Admittingly, I thought it was going to come about through the Azor Ahai legend, that Jon was going to have to kill her because of her actions but also because of the need to create Lightbringer. Still, I figured when they met they would fall in love and Jon would have to kill her.**

 **Do I think D &D could have done a better job writing the script, yes, but to hate everything about the show and wishing for all of season 8 to be redone undermines everything amazing that D&D have done this last decade, what time and effort our favorite actors have put into our favorite characters, and the heavy work thousands of other people have done who have impacted the show in one way or another.**

 **But of course, that's my very unpopular opinion as Tumblr has shown me.**

 **I'm just waiting for George to get his shit together and give of his "true" version of the story. Will Dany turn out the same? I truly believe that she will, but hopefully, George RR Martin will be able to convey that plot line in a better way...**

 **And Sandor The Fucking Hound Clegane with be alive and kicking and living in Winterfell with Queen Fucking Sansa as they discuss how cute Arya and Gendry are as the Lord and Lady of Storm's End (or King's Landing as I really wanted Gendry Baratheon to sit on the throne). *takes breath***

 **Talk to me. About the chapter. About the show. About your favorite ice cream flavor. Whatever works for you.**

 **(Seriously doe, I have so much more to say about everything, if ya'll want to have that conversation let's do it. We're all friends here, right?)**


	12. Chapter 12

12\. Protect & Protection

The room erupted.

Old men who complained of knee pain jumped to their feet like decades had been erased from their bones. They shouted in outrage and pointed accusing fingers at Tyrion as if it were the little man's plan to steal away the King of the North the whole time. The only ones staying in their seats were those from the Brotherhood. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr sat by unconcerned, sipping on wine as they eyed the chaos around them.

Sansa wasn't sure what to do. As she snapped her head in Jon's direction, she was torn between lashing out with the men and respectfully staying quiet until she could speak with Jon in private. That would be the practical and logical way to go about the situation. She'd get nowhere if she were to dispute Jon in front of the men. In private, she'd voice her opinions and Jon would listen. They'd be reasonable with each other, family. But would he abide what she'd suggest? He hadn't so far.

"You can't be serious!"

"The north does not bend to dragon queens!"

"Fuck the girl and her imp!"

"Enough!" Jon roared over the crowd. It silenced at once. "This is not up for discussion!"

Tyrion stepped forward, hands in the air as if in surrender. It seemed he wished to ease the tension. "I'm sure Her Grace would be grateful to receive you."

Jon narrowed his eyes at Tyrion. The little man's reassurances weren't helpful. "I don't go for her to be grateful. I go for dragonglass."

"And what happens if you get neither?" Sansa finally asked. She clenched her finger in her lap beneath the table. Best not to show how truly on edge she was about the turn of events any more than she was already about to. "There's no guarantee that she will allow us to mine the dragonglass. And Her Grace isn't rumored to be merciful to those who choose not to support her claim to the throne."

"What other choice do we have, Sansa?" Jon turned his body slightly toward her. His voice groveled a bit. She was second guessing him again, in front of the men, in front of Tyrion. That wouldn't do. "We're running out of time and there are no other, viable options left."

"We let Tyrion speak with her first. She knows him, clearly trusts him, she's more likely to trust his opinion on the matter."

"We can't take that chance. We need allies. Powerful allies and this is how that is done. I have made up my mind, and the decision is final: I will go to Dragonstone."

The men were not happy. They cursed under their breaths. They shook their heads. They looked as if they were ready to make war with the Targaryen girl's men right then and there. In a matter of moments, their King in the North announced that not only would he be leaving Winterfell but doing so to sail across the water to knock on the door of a foreign queen. One that would just as well have all of them burned to a crisp for electing such a king.

The north vowed to be independent, secure, and weary of any power that wasn't amongst their own. And in a single decision that vow was broken.

To the side of the room, standing half in shadow was Littlefinger. His back was straight, pressed against the wall as if he did so hard enough he could shrink into the rock altogether. He never left Sansa's gaze. He looked rather pleased with himself as he watched the chaos ensue, an irritating looking of knowing within them. None of this was a surprise to him. He knew. This was what he suggested to her would happen eventually, if not in so many words, but it was there nonetheless.

The King in the North was stepping forward with or without her.

At that moment Sansa didn't care about how she was supposed to react, how a Stark should react, how a Lady of Winterfell should react. She didn't care that she should wait for Jon to express to Tyrion and the men that they were dismissed. She didn't care that she suddenly felt like a small child with a bruised ego. It was as if she had been caught doing something foolish and embarrassing by someone she needed to think of her as grown and capable. Littlefinger shouldn't have been able to bring that out of her. But if she admitted it to herself, it wasn't just him. She caught herself.

So she certainly didn't care that all eyes were on her as she hastily stood up from her chair and took exit from the Great Hall without a second glance at anyone.

•••

Eddard Stark grew up with the Old Gods of the Forest and taught those lessons to his children. They were to believe and respect in the unnamed spirits of nature and take part in quiet contemplation in the godswood rather than fuss over celebrations and scripture like with the Faith of the Seven. It was a simple and powerful faith. Eddard made sure that his children knew that. Sit under the tree's falling red leaves. Stare at your reflection in the pond's ripples. Think.

He'd be disappointed to know that whatever contemplation his children did in the godswood had little to do with pleasing the gods.

The godswood wasn't a place of prayer for Sansa anymore. Since her days in King's Landing, it became a place to escape from the eyes, grasp, and words of others. It was a place where people were the least likely to bother her. It continued to be that place now that she was home.

Sansa's thoughts were still reeling as she positioned herself next to the weirwood tree, keeping her back toward the entrance of the forest. Her left hand held tight to the trunk of the tree. She kept away from the mystical face etched into the wood. The bark's roughness could still be felt under the leather of her gloves and increased as she leaned her weight into her hand. A sharp jab began to irritate her palm, but Sansa barely noticed it. There were more pressing matters to focus on. Like how Jon was going to Dragonstone.

He did so to aid the north. Sansa knew that well enough, but it still was a cause for concern that rubbed her the wrong way. The decision was a risk and one that could determine whether or not the north would survive long enough to see spring. It wasn't to be taken lightly. The men needed a moment to think, to be convinced that this was for the best. Sansa needed that more than any of them. But Jon was determined to jump quickly with little thought on what this foreign queen's help would mean for Winterfell when and if they found themselves free of the dead's path. Did he think about what Daenerys would want in return for her compliance? Or if the northmen would continue to follow him if Jon took orders from her? Sansa had.

The godswood was one of the quietest places in Winterfell with its vast area so far away from the busyness of stables and courtyards, all swarming with men. You could hear every bird's song and whisper in the wind like it was meant only for your ears bear witness. So it wasn't surprising that a pair of footsteps could be heard crunching in the thin layer of snow, rounding the small body of water to grace Sansa with their presence. She gave a heavy sigh and turned around. She wasn't in the mood for company and felt only slightly relieved to see that at least it wasn't Jon following her to discuss her abrupt exit out of the hall.

Sandor stood several yards away from her, a large dark figure strikingly apparent against the abyss of soft white snow. He undoubtedly would have been within the Great Hall at the meeting with Tyrion. She hasn't seen him, but with the way that Sandor gazed at her, Sansa knew that he witnessed her actions. She would have rather he hadn't.

There was a snow-dusted log sitting between the tree and the pond. Father sat there so many times before to rest and think. She went to take his place. She wanted to feel his spirit wrap around her. The wood was cold and wet. "If you have something to say, just say it."

He scuffed. "Where are you courtesies now, girl?"

"I assume wherever yours are. You do know that this is a quiet place one goes to pray alone and uninterrupted?"

"Do much praying these days, do you? That do shit for you recently?" He was mocking her. "Going to need more than prays after that show with the Imp."

"There was no show."

An actual laugh escaped Sandor's lips. He clearly disagreed. "That's what you called that back there? Never saw a man with so many eyes on him look as if he wanted shit himself all because a woman didn't get her way."

So Jon was embarrassed. A respectful response would be to feel guilty that her actions caused Jon to look such a way in front of his men. He was King in the North. He was her brother. He was the one to lead us through whatever war they were heading into. But none of that mattered. She had a right to feel how she felt regardless of how that reflected unto Jon. He'd manage the men just fine.

"It's not about getting my way," Sansa snapped. "It's about what's doing what's best for the north."

"Best for the north, is that it? I'd say a few fucking dragons might serve your precious north if even half of what your brother says is true. If nothing else, to burn the Lannister bitch to the ground. Or have you forgotten about her already?"

"What do you want?" Sansa suddenly asked eyes narrowed in Sandor's direction, skipping overtop all his questions. He wished to press her anger, but she wasn't going to allow it to go much further without knowing why. It must go beyond wishing to seem hateful. "Why your sudden concerns for the north? We've survived just fine these thousands of years without them."

"You think when the time comes, big bitch is going to be able to protect you all on her own? I've heard her rescues have done you shit. Or do you think that bastard Littlefinger is going to save you with his fancy words?"

Sansa stood sharply, the anger he so clearly wished to brew starting to grow. He hadn't the right. "Brienne has done more for me than any man. Or dragon. She certainly did what you couldn't."

The failed rescue during the Battle of Blackwater wasn't Sandor's fault. Sansa knew that. It was hers. She chose to stay, to put her stupid faith on the idea that Stannis Baratheon would win over the Lannisters and mercifully send her back to her family. She was young and scared and didn't know just how different it all would have been had she take Sandor's offer when she had the chance. But none of that mattered at the moment. Her body felt so warm with resentment that it could melt all the snow in the godswood if she were only to reach out her hand and stroke the ground.

Sansa took steps toward him with every word she spoke. "Or are you here to offer me another chance at escape, like last time? Is that what you're doing here? Wanting to run before yet another castle is engulfed in fire? At least I could count on Littlefinger to embrace the flames."

He said nothing. Sandor only looked down at her now that she was only a couple feet from his side. His breath was heavy and his nostrils flared in heightened aggravation. But he held his tongue.

Sansa found the corners of her lips turning upward in a smirk for just a moment. She shook her head once then twice. What she wouldn't have given to render him silent just a single time when they had been in King's Landing. Nothing gives a girl confidence like halting the words of a man who wields his like a hammer.

"Winterfell is my home. Mine. And I won't anyone else tell me how to keep it, including you."

Too riled up to sit back down still in his presence, Sansa thought it best to leave. Where would she go next? Her room? If things continue as they did, she'd have nowhere to run to when she needed a moment to herself. And she didn't want to go, to leave the godswood or even the company of Sandor. But if she was going to waste her time arguing over dragons and brothel keepers it should be done with Jon. Which she didn't want to do either. Avoiding it all seemed to be the option least invasive at the moment and that was what she told herself as she passed by Sandor.

Just before she'd be out of his reach, he grasped her arm. His grip was tight and unyielding but unharming. Sansa was quick to reject the motion until he said, "They can't protect you forever." His voice was low.

She hoped her surprise on the comment was well masked. "Perhaps. But who else is going to?"

Sansa considered the idea that he might. He could. Sandor offered it to her all those years ago, and she wondered if such a thing had an expiration date on it. Of course, he was currently part of the Brotherhood, but they didn't hand out punishments when one of their own decided to move on as the Night's Watch did. Did she hope that he would? That he would pledge himself to her side? That he'd fight for her home and her safety despite how little he let it show he cares about either?

There was a chance.

But when Sandor said nothing in response, Sansa gave a shy smile. She placed a hand gently on his gripping her arm. "Still, I will protect what's mine." She squeezed his hand and, with every ounce of strength she had, removed his large fingers from around her skin. Instantly, the cold air rushed in and took the place of where his fingertips left invisible prints under her sleeve. But she made up for it with the warmth that transferred between their skin for the few seconds they let their hands touch.

As Sansa left Sandor behind next to the weirwood tree, she wondered briefly if any of those gods she chose to ignore were paying her any attention after all.


End file.
